UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA.  SAN  DIEGO 


BY 

ROBERT 
HICHENS 

ILLUSTRATED 
BY 

JULES  GUERIN 


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^YNE  S.  VUClNlL^rt  ^  c>P 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAN  DIEGO 


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3  1822  02375  8287 


GtiSa  LIBRARY 

UNiVERSiTY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAN  DliGO 

LA  JOLLA,  CALIFORNIA 


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THE  NEAR  EAST 


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THE  MOSQUE  OF  SULEIMAN  AT  CONSTANTINOPLE 


Copyright,  19 13,  by 
The  Century  Co. 

Published  October,  igij 


THE   DE  VINNE   PRESS 


CONTENTS 

Chapter  I 


PACK 


PICTURESQUE  DALMATIA i 

Chapter  II 
IN  AND  NEAR  ATHENS 49 

Chapter  III 
THE  ENVIRONS  OF  ATHENS 95 

Chapter  IV 
DELPHI  AND  OLYMPIA 137 

Chapter  V 
IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 181 

Chapter  VI 
STAMBOUL,  THE  CITY  OF  MOSQUES 225 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


The  Mosque  of  Suleiman  at  Constantinople Frontispiece 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Guerin 


PAGB 


The  Roman  Amphitheater  at  Pola 4 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Gudrin 

The  Market-Place  at  Spalato 9 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Guerin 

Zara — Piazza  delle  Erbe 14 


The  Harbor  of  Mezzo 17 

Spalato — Peristilio 24 

Trau — Vestibule  of  the  Cathedral 27 

Ragusa 32 


The  Rector's  Palace  and  the  Public  Square  at  Ragusa    .      .      .      .      37 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Guerin 

The  Jesuits'  Church  and  the  Military  Hospital,  Ragusa  ....     45 


The  Parthenon  at  Athens 52 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Gu(5rin 

The  Acropolis,  with  a  View  of  the  Areopagus  and  Mount  Hymettus, 

from  the  West 55 


vu 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Theater  of  Dionysus  on  the  southern  slope  of  the  Acropolis .     62 


PAGE 


The  Temple  of  the  Olympian  Zeus  at  Athens 65 

From  a  jiainting  by  Jules  Gudrin 

In  the  Portico  of  the  Parthenon 70 


The  Temple  of  Athene  Nike  at  Athens 75 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Gu^rin 

The  Stadium,  Athens 82 

The  Academy,  Mount  Lycabettus  in  the  background      .     .     .     .      87 
The  Acropolis  at  Athens,  early  morning 92 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Gucrin 

The  Temple  of  Poseidon  and  Athene  at  Sunium 98 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Guerin 

The  Temple  of  Athene,  Island  or  yEgina 103 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Guerin 

The  Theater  of  Dionysus,  Athens 108 

The  Plain  of  Marathon 1 1 3 

A  Monastery  at  the  foot  of  Hymettus 1 20 

Ruins  of  the  Great  Temple  of  the  Mysteries  at  Eleusis  .     .     .     .125 
The  Odeum  of  Herodes  Atticus  in  Athens 133 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  (}uerin 

The  Site  of  Ancient  Delphi 140 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Guerin 
viii 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Delphi  —  Gulf  of  Corinth  in   the  distance 143 


PAGE 


The  Lion  of  Chaeronea,  the  Acropolis  and  Mount  Parnassus    .      .150 

Place  of  the  famous  Oracle,  Delphi 154 

View  of  Mount  Parnassus 159 

Ruins  of  the  Temple  of  Apollo  at  Delphi 165 

The  Temple  of  Hera  at  Olympia 170 

Olympia — Entrance  to  the  Athletic  Pleld 175 

The  Grand  Bazaar  in  Constantinople 184 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Guerin 

The  Bosphorous  —  Constantinople  in  the  distance 190 

Galata  Bridge,  which  connects  Galata  and  Pera 193 

The  Water-front  of  Stamboul,  with  Pera  in  the  distance      ,      .      .  200 

Looking  down  Step  Street,  Constantinople 203 

Public  Letter-writers  in  a  Constantinople  Street 208 


The  Courtyard  of  the  "Pigeon's  Mosque" 213 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Guerin 

Street  Scene  in  Constantinople 221 

ix 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


The  Mosque  of  the  Yeni-VaHde-Jamissi,  Constantinople      .      .      .   228 

From  a  paintin;^  by  Jules  Guerin 

The  Royal  Gate  leadin<j  to  the  old  Seraglio .      .      .  ....   231 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Gudrin 

The  Mosque  of  Santa  Sophia      .      .      " 238 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Guerin 

In  tlie  Cemetery  of  Kyub,  on  the  Golden  Horn 241 

From  a  painting  by  Jules  Guerin 

Interior  of  Santa  Sophia 246 

St.  George's  Greek  Church,  now  a  mosque,  Constantinople  .  .251 
Street  vista  in  Galata  from  end  of  bridge,  Constantinople  .  .  .258 
A  view  over  Constantinople  showing  the  Mosque  of  Santa  Sophia  263 


PICTURESQUE  DALMATIA 


THE  'ROMAN  AMPHITHEATER  AT  POLA 


THE  NEAR  EAST 

Chapter  I 
PICTURESQUE  DALMATIA 

MIRAMAR  faded  across  the  pale  waters  of 
the  Adriatic,  which  lay  like  a  dream  at  the 
foot  of  the  hills  where  Triest  seemed 
sleeping,  all  its  activities  stilled  at  the  summons  of 
peace.  Beneath  its  tower  the  orange-colored  sail  of 
a  fishing-boat  caught  the  sunlight,  and  gleamed  like 
some  precious  fabric,  then  faded,  too,  as  the  ship 
moved  onward  to  the  forgotten  region  of  rocks  and 
islands,  of  long,  gray  mountains,  of  little  cities  and 
ancient  fortresses,  of  dim  old  churches,  from  whose 
campanile  the  medieval  voices  of  bells  ring  out  the 
angelus  to  a  people  still  happily  primitive,  still  un- 
ashamed to  be  picturesque.  By  the  way  of  the  sea 
we  journeyed  to  a  capital  where  no  carriages  roll 
through  the  narrow  streets,  where  there  is  not  a  rail- 
way-station, where  the  citizens  are  content  to  go  on 
foot  about  their  business,  and  where  three  quarters 
of  the  blessings  of  civilization   are   blessedly  un- 

s 


THE    NEAR   EAST 

known.  We  had  still  to  touch  at  Pola,  in  whose 
great  harhor  the  dull-green  war-ships  of  Austria  lay 
almost  in  the  shadow  of  the  vast  Roman  amphi- 
theater, which  has  lifted  its  white  walls,  touched 
here  and  there  with  gold,  above  the  sea  for  some  six- 
teen hundred  years,  curiously  graceful  despite  its 
gigantic  bulk,  the  home  now  of  grasses  and  thistles, 
where  twenty  thousand  spectators  used  to  assemble 
to  take  their  pleasure. 

But  when  Pola  was  left  behind,  the  ship  soon  en- 
tered the  watery  paradise.  Miramar,  Triest,  were 
forgotten.  Dalmatia  is  a  land  of  forgetting,  seems 
happily  far  away,  cut  off  by  the  sea  from  many 
banalities,  many  active  annoyances  of  modern  life. 

Places  that  are,  or  that  seem  to  be,  remote  often 
hold  a  certain  melancholy,  a  tristesse  of  "old,  un- 
happy, far-off  things."  But  Dalmatia  has  a  serene 
atmosphere,  a  cheerful  purity,  a  clean  and  a  cozy 
gaiety  which  reach  out  hands  to  the  traveler,  and 
take  him  at  once  into  intimacy  and  the  breast  of  a 
home.  Before  entering  it  the  ship  coasts  along  a 
naked  region,  in  which  pale,  almost  flesh-colored 
hills  are  backed  by  mountains  of  a  ghastly  grayness. 
Flesh-color  and  steel  are  almost  cruelly  blended. 
No  habitations  were  visible.  The  sea,  protected  on 
our  right  by  lines  of  islands,  was  waveless.  No  birds 
flew  above  it;  no  boats  moved  on  it.  We  seemed  to 
be  creeping  down  into  the  ultimate  desolation. 

6 


PICTURESQUE   DALMATIA 

But  presently  the  waters  widened  out.  At  the 
foot  of  the  hills  appeared  here  and  there  white 
g"roups  of  houses.  A  greater  warmth,  like  a  breath 
of  hope,  stole  into  the  air.  White  and  yellow  sails 
showed  on  the  breast  of  the  sea.  Two  sturdy  men, 
wearing  red  caps,  and  standing  to  ply  their  oars, 
hailed  us  in  the  Slav  dialect  as  they  passed  on  their 
way  to  the  islands.  The  huge,  gray  Velebit  Moun- 
tains still  bore  us  company  on  our  voyage  to  the 
South,  but  they  were  losing  their  almost  wicked  look 
of  dreariness.  In  the  golden  light  of  afternoon 
romance  was  descending  upon  them.  And  now  a 
long  spur  of  green  land  thrust  itself  far  out,  as  if  to 
bar  our  way  onward.  The  islands  closed  in  upon  us 
again.  A  white  town  smiled  on  us  far  off  at  the  edge 
of  the  happy,  green  land.  It  looked  full  of  promises, 
a  little  city  not  to  be  passed  without  regretting.  It 
was  Zara,  the  capital  without  a  railway-station  of 
the  forgotten  country. 

Zara,  Trau,  Spalato,  Ragusa,  Castelnuovo,  Cat- 
taro,  Sebenico — these,  with  two  or  three  other 
places,  represent  Dalmatia  to  the  average  traveler. 
Ragusa  is,  perhaps,  the  most  popular  and  interest- 
ing; Spalato  the  most  populous  and  energetic;  Cat- 
taro  the  most  remarkable  scenically.  Trau  leaves  a 
haunting  memory  in  the  mind  of  him  who  sees  it. 
Castelnuovo  is  a  little  paradise  marred  in  some  de- 
gree b}'  the  soldiers  who  infest  it,  and  who  seem 

7 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

strangely  out  of  place  in  its  tiny  ways  and  its  tree- 
shaded  piazza  on  the  hilltop.  But  Zara  has  a  peculiar 
charm,  half  gay,  half  brightly  tender.  And  nowhere 
else  in  all  Dalmatia  are  such  exquisite  effects  of  light 
wedded  to  water  to  be  seen  as  on  Zara's  Canale. 

Zara,  like  other  sirens,  is  deceptive.  The  city  has 
a  face  which  gives  little  indication  of  its  soul.  Along 
the  shore  lie  tall  and  cheerful  houses, — almost 
palaces  they  are, — solid  and  big,  modern,  with  win- 
dows opening  to  the  sea,  and  separated  from  it  only 
by  a  broad  walk,  edged  by  a  strip  of  pavement,  from 
which  might  be  taken  a  dive  into  the  limpid  water. 
And  here,  when  the  ship  tied  up,  a  well-dressed 
throng  of  joyous  citizens  was  taking  the  air.  Chil- 
dren were  playing  and  laughing.  Two  or  three  row- 
boats  slipped  through  the  gold  and  silver  which  the 
sun,  just  setting  behind  the  island  of  Ugljan  oppo- 
site, showered  toward  the  city.  Music  came  from 
some  place  of  entertainment.  A  simple  liveliness 
suggested  prosperous  homes,  the  well-being  of  a 
community  apart,  which  chose  to  live  "out  of  the 
world,"  away  from  railroads,  motor-cars,  and  car- 
riage traffic,  but  which  knew  how  to  be  modern  in  its 
own  quiet  and  decorous  way. 

Yet  Zara  had  a  great  soaring  campanile — it  had 
been  visible  far  off  at  sea — and  tiny  streets  and  old 
buildings,  San  Donato,  the  duomo,  San  Simeone ;  and 
five  fountains, — the  cinque  pozzi, — and  a  Venetian 

8 


THE   MARKET-PLACE  AT  SPALATO 


.^i* 


PICTURESQUE    DALMATIA 

tower, — the  Torre  di  Buovo  d'Antona, — and  fortifi- 
cation gardens,  and  lion  gateways.  Where  were  all 
these?  A  sound  of  bells  came  from  behind  the  pal- 
aces. And  these  bells  seemed  to  be  proclaiming  the 
truth  of  Zara. 

Bells  ringing  in  hidden  places  behind  the  palaces; 
bells  calling  across  strange  gardens  lifted  high  on 
mighty  walls;  bells  whispering  among  pines  and 
murmuring  across  green  depths  of  glass-like  water; 
bells  chiming  above  the  yellowing  vines  on  tiny 
islands!  Who  that  remembers  Zara  remembers  not 
Zara's  bells? 

Walk  a  few  steps  from  the  sea,  passing  between 
the  big  houses  which  front  it  into  the  Piazza  delle 
Erbe,  and  you  come  at  once  into  a  busy  strangeness 
of  Croatia  girdled  about  by  Italy.  Dalmatia  has 
been  possessed  wholly  or  in  part  by  Romans,  Goths, 
Slavs,  Hungarians,  Turks,  Venetians.  Now  smart 
Austrian  soldiers  make  themselves  at  home  in  Zara, 
but  Italy  seems  still  to  rule  there,  stretching  hands 
out  of  the  past.  Italian  may  be  heard  on  all  sides, 
but  the  peasants  who  throng  the  calle  and  the  mar- 
ket-place and  the  harbor  speak  a  Sbvonic  dialect, 
and  in  the  piazza  on  any  morning,  almost  in  the 
shadow  of  the  Romanesque  cathedral,  and  watched 
over  by  a  griffin  perched  on  a  high  Corinthian  col- 
umn hung  with  chains,  which  announce  its  old  ser- 
vice as  a  pillory,  you  may  hear  their  chatter,  and 

I  I 


THE    NEAR   EAST 

see  the  gay  colors  of  costumes  which  to  the  untrav- 
eled  might  perhaps  suggest  comic  opera. 

There  is  a  wildness  of  the  near  East  in  this  me- 
dieval Italian  town,  a  wildness  which  blooms  and 
fades  between  tall  houses  of  stone,  facing  each  other 
so  closely  that  friend  might  almost  clasp  hand  with 
friend  leaning  from  window  to  opposite  window. 
Against  the  somber  grays  and  browns  of  faqades, 
set  in  the  deep  shadows  of  the  paved  alleys  which  are 
Zara's  streets,  move  brilliant  colors,  scarlet  and  sil- 
ver, blue  and  crimson  and  silver.  Multitudes  of 
coins  and  curious  heavy  ornaments  glitter  on  the 
caps  and  the  dresses  of  women.  Enormous  boys  and 
great,  striding  men,  brave  in  embroidered  jackets, 
with  bright-red  caps  too  small  for  the  head,  silver 
buttons,  red  sashes  stuck  full  of  weapons  and  other 
impedimenta,  gaiters,  and  pointed  shoes,  march 
hither  and  thither,  calmly  intent  on  some  business 
which  has  brought  them  in  from  the  outlying  dis- 
tricts. It  varies,  of  course,  with  the  changing  sea- 
sons. In  the  latter  part  of  October  and  beginning  of 
November  most  of  the  male  peasants  were  selling 
very  large  hares.  Live  cocks  and  hens  were  being 
disposed  of  by  many  of  the  women,  and  it  is  a  com- 
mon thing  in  Zara  to  see  well-dressed  people  bearing 
about  with  them  bunches  of  puffed-out  and  drearily 
blinking  poultry,  which  they  have  bought  casually 
at  some  corner;  by  the  great  Venetian  tower;  or  near 

I  2 


x^ 


PICTURESQUE   DALMATIA 

the  round,  two-storied  church  of  San  Donato, 
founded  on  the  spot  where  once  stood  a  Roman 
forum,  whose  pavement  still  remains;  or  perhaps  by- 
San  Simeone,  close  to  the  palace  of  the  governor, 
where  under  the  black  eagles  of  Austria  the  sentry, 
in  blue  and  bright  yellow,  stands  drowsily  in  the 
sunshine  before  his  black  and  yellow  box. 

Sometimes  the  peasants  bring  live  stock  to 
church.  One  morning,  on  a  week  day,  I  went  into 
San  Simeone,  to  which  Queen  Elizabeth  of  Hungary 
gave  the  superb  area  of  silver  gilt  which  contains,  it 
is  said,  the  remains  of  the  saint.  I  found  there  a 
number  of  peasants,  men  and  women,  all  in  charac- 
teristic costumes.  Only  peasants  were  there.  Some 
were  quietly  sitting,  some  kneeling,  some  standing, 
with  their  market-baskets  set  down  on  the  pave- 
ment beside  them.  In  a  hidden  place  behind  the 
high  altar,  above  which  is  raised  the  great,  carved 
sarcophagus,  priests  were  droning  the  office.  A 
peasant  in  red,  with  a  gesture,  invited  me  to  sit  be- 
side him.  I  did  so,  and  he  whispered  in  my  ear  some 
words  I  could  not  understand;  but  I  gathered  that 
something  very  important  was  about  to  take  place. 
Every  face  was  expectant.  All  eyes  were  earnestly 
fixed  upon  the  sarcophagus.  A  woman  came  in, 
carrying  in  her  arms  a  turkey,  which  looked  anx- 
ious-minded, crossed  herself,  and  waited  with  us, 
gazing.    The  droning  voices  ceased.    A  sort  of  caril- 

^5 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

Ion  sounded  brightly.  We  all  knelt,  the  woman  with 
the  turkey,  too,  as  a  priest  in  scarlet  and  white 
mounted  the  steps  which  divide  the  altar  from  the 
area.  There  was  a  moment  of  deep  silence.  Then 
the  great,  glittering,  and  sloping  lid,  with  its  recum- 
bent figure  of  the  saint,  slowly  rose  between  the 
bronze  supporting  figures.  My  peasant  friend 
touched  me,  stood  up,  and  led  the  way  toward  the 
altar.  I  followed  him  with  the  rest  of  the  congrega- 
tion, and  we  filed  slowly  up  the  steps,  and  one  by  one 
gazed  down  into  the  dim  cofiin.  There  I  saw  a  skull, 
and  the  vague  brown  remains  of  what  had  once  been 
a  human  being,  lying  in  the  midst  of  votive  offer- 
ings. On  the  fingers  of  one  hand,  which  looked  as  if 
made  of  tobacco  leaf,  were  clusters  of  rings.  The 
fat,  bronze  faces  on  each  side  seemed  smiling.  But 
the  peasants  stood  in  awe.  And  presently  the  great 
lid  sank  down.  All  made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  The 
market-baskets  were  picked  up,  and  the  turkey  was 
restored  to  the  sunlight. 

Close  to  San  Simeone  are  the  cinque  pozzi — five 
fountains  in  a  row%  with  iron  wheels  above  them. 
They  are  between  four  and  five  hundred  years  old, 
and  lie  almost  at  the  foot  of  the  Venetian  tower, 
near  a  Corinthian  column  and  the  fragments  of  a 
Roman  arch.  Just  behind  them  some  steps  lead  up 
to  one  of  the  delicious  shady  places  of  Zara.  Mount 
them,  and  you  will  have  a  happy  surprise  such  as  the 

i6 


w 

X 
> 

CO 

O 


2 

W 
N 
N 
O 


PICTURESQUE   DALMATIA 

little  Dalmatian  cities  are  always  ready  to  give 
you. 

You  have  been  walking-  away  from  the  sea,  with 
your  back  to  the  harbor,  and  here  is  another,  but 
minute,  harbor  nestling  under  a  great  fortress  wall 
above  which,  in  a  garden,  some  young  soldiers  are 
idly  leaning  and  laughing  under  trees  with  leaves  of 
gold  and  red-brown.  Brightly  painted  vessels, 
closely  packed  together,  lie  on  the  blue-green  water. 
Beyond  them  are  the  trees  of  Blazekovic  Park.  And 
just  beneath  you,  on  your  right,  is  the  great,  yellow 
stone  Porta  di  Terra  Ferma,  with  its  winged  lion  of 
St.  Mark.  Beyond,  over  the  narrow  exit  from  the 
harbor,  the  landlocked  Canale  di  Zara,  which  some- 
times, especially  at  evening,  reminded  me  of  the 
Venice  lagoons,  lies  glittering  in  the  sun.  And  a 
Venetian  fort  on  the  peak  of  Ugljan  shows  like  a 
strange  and  determined  shadow  against  the  blue  of 
the  sky. 

The  great  white  campanile  which  dominates  Zara, 
and  which  from  the  sea  looks  lig"ht  and  graceful,  is 
the  campanile  of  the  duomo,  Sant'  Anastasia,  and 
was  partly  built  by  the  Venetians,  and  completed 
not  many  years  ago.  From  the  narrow  street  which 
skirts  the  duomo  this  campanile,  though  majestic, 
looks  heavy  and  almost  overwhelming,  too  huge,  too 
tremendously  solid,  for  the  little  town  in  which  it  is 
set.    And  its  blanched  hue,  beautiful  from  the  sea, 

19 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

has  a  rather  unpleasant  effect  against  the  deep,  time- 
worn  color  of  the  church,  the  facade  of  which,  with 
its  two  rose  windows,  one  large,  one  small,  its  three 
beautiful,  mellow-toned  doorways,  and  its  curious 
and  somehow  touching,  though  stolid,  statues,  is 
very  fine.  The  interior,  not  specially  interesting, 
contains  some  glorious  Gothic  stalls  dating  from  the 
fifteenth  century.  They  are  of  black  wood,  relieved 
with  bosses  and  tiny  statuettes  of  bright  gold,  and 
above  each  one  is  the  half-length  of  a  gilded  and 
painted  man,  wearing  a  beard  and  holding  a  scroll. 
The  Porta  Marina,  through  which  the  chief  harbor 
is  gained,  is  remarkable  for  its  carved,  dark-gray 
lion,  companioned  by  two  white  cherubs  of  stone 
brilliantly  full  of  life  despite  their  almost  terrifying 
obesity.  One  of  the  most  beautiful  things  in  Zara  is 
the  delicate  and  lovely  campanile  of  Santa  Maria, 
over  six  hundred  years  old.  St.  Grisogono,  the 
church  of  the  city's  patron  saint,  was  in  the  hands  of 
workmen  and  could  not  be  visited  when  I  was  in 
Dalmatia. 

Almost  the  whole  of  Zara  is  surrounded  by  water. 
On  the  great  walls  of  the  ancient  fortifications  are 
gardens,  and  from  these  gardens  you  look  down  on 
quiet  inlets  of  the  sea.  Old  buildings,  old  walls  and 
gardens,  tiny,  medieval  streets  through  which  no 
carriage  ever  passes,  fountains,  lion  gateways, 
painted  boats  lying  on  clear  and  apparently  motion- 

20 


PICTURESQUE   DALMATIA 

less  waters  shut  in  from  the  open  sea  by  long  lines 
of  mountainous  islands,  pine-trees  and  olives  and 
golden  vineyards,  and  over  all  an  ancient  music  of 
bells.  It  is  difficult  to  say  good-by  to  Zara,  even 
though  Spalato  sends  out  a  summons  from  the  ri- 
viera  of  red  and  of  gold,  even  though  Ragusa  calls 
from  its  leafy  groves  under  the  Fort  Imperiale. 

Bora,  the  v^ind  of  the  dead,  blew  when  our  ship 
rounded  the  lighthouse  of  Spalato  long  after  dark- 
ness had  fallen.  And  the  following  day  was  the 
''giorno  dei  mortis  The  strange  cathedral,  octag- 
onal without,  circular  within,  once  the  mausoleum 
of  the  Emperor  Diocletian,  was  crowded  with  citi- 
zens and  peasants  devoutly  praying.  Incense  rose 
between  the  dark,  hoary  walls,  the  columns  of  gran- 
ite and  porphyry,  to  the  dome  of  brick.  Outside  in 
the  wind  the  black  hornblende  sphinx  kept  watch  on 
those  who  came  and  went,  mourning  for  their  de- 
parted. The  sky  was  a  heavy  gray,  and  the  temple 
was  dark,  and  looked  wrinkled  and  seared  with  age, 
and  sad  despite  its  pagan  frieze  showing  the  wild 
joys  of  the  chase,  despite  the  loveliness  of  its  thir- 
teenth-century pulpit  of  limestone  and  marble, 
raised  high  on  wonderfully  graceful  columns  with 
elaborately  carved  capitals. 

Spalato  is  the  biggest,  most  bustling  town  of  Dal- 
matia.  Much  of  it  is  built  into  the  great  palace  of 
Diocletian,  which  lies  over  against  the  sea,  huge. 

21 


THE    NEAR   EAST 

massive,  powerful,  once  probably  noble,  but  now 
disfigured  by  the  paltry  windows  and  the  green 
shutters  of  modern  dwellings,  by  a  triviality  of  com- 
mon commercial  life,  sparrows  where  eagles  should 
be.  When  nature  takes  a  ruin,  she  usually  glorifies 
it,  or  touches  it  with  a  tenderness  of  romance.  But 
when  people  in  the  wine  trade  lay  hold  upon  it,  hang 
out  their  washing  in  it,  and  establish  their  cafes  and 
their  bakeries  and  their  butchers'  shops  in  the  midst 
of  its  rugged  walls,  its  arches,  and  its  columns,  the 
ruin  suffers,  and  the  people  in  the  wine  trade  seem  to 
lose  in  value  instead  of  gaining  in  importance. 

Spalato  is  a  strange  confusion  of  old  and  new.  It 
lacks  the  delicacy  of  Zara,  the  harmonious  beauty  of 
Ragusa.  One  era  seems  to  fight  with  another  within 
it.  Here  is  a  noble  twelfth-century  campanile, 
nearly  a  hundred  and  eighty  feet  high,  there  a  com- 
mon row  of  little  shops  full  of  cheap  and  uninviting 
articles.  Turning  a  corner,  one  comes  unexpectedly 
upon  a  Corinthian  temple.  It  is  the  Battistero  di 
San  Giovanni,  once  perhaps  the  private  temple  of 
Diocletian.  For  the  moment  no  one  is  near  it,  and 
despite  the  icy  breath  of  Bora  raging  through  the 
city  and  crying,  "This  is  the  day  of  the  dead!"  a  calm 
of  dead  years  infolds  you  as  you  enter  the  massive 
doorway  and  pass  into  the  shadow  beneath  the  stone 
wagon-roof.  A  few  steps,  and  the  smell  of  fish  as- 
sails you,  hundreds  of  strings  of  onions  greet  your 

22 


!^. 


me^^. 


SPALATO— PRRISTILIO 


PICTURESQUE   DALMATIA 

eyes,  and  the  heavy  rolling  of  enormous  barrels  of 
wine  over  stone  pavements  breaks  through  the  noise 
of  the  wind.  You  have  come  unexpectedly  out 
through  a  gateway  of  the  palace  on  to  the  quay  to 
the  south,  and  are  in  the  midst  of  commercial  ac- 
tivities. The  contrasts  are  picturesque,  but  they  are 
rough,  and,  when  complicated  by  Bora,  are  confus- 
ing, almost  distressing.  Nevertheless,  Spalato  is 
well  worth  a  visit.  It  contains  a  small,  but  remark- 
able, museum,  specially  interesting  for  its  sarco- 
phagi found  at  Salona  and  its  collection  of  inscrip- 
tions. The  sarcophagus  showing  the  passage  of  the 
Red  Sea  is  very  curious.  Apart  from  the  now  disfig- 
ured palace,  the  Battistero,  the  very  interesting  and 
peculiar  cathedral,  with  its  vestibule,  its  rotunda, 
and  its  Piazza  of  the  Sphinx,  like  nothing  else  I  have 
seen,  the  town  is  full  of  picturesque  nooks  and  cor- 
ners; and  its  fruit  market  at  the  foot  of  the  massive 
octagonal  Hrvoja  Tower,  which  dates  from  1481,  is 
perhaps  even  more  animated,  more  full  of  strange- 
ness and  color,  than  Zara's  Piazza  delle  Erbe.  Here 
may  be  seen  turbans  of  crimson  on  the  handsome 
heads  of  men,  elaborately  embroidered  crimson 
jackets  covering  immense  shoulders  and  chests,  wo- 
men dressed  in  blue  and  red,  white  and  silver,  or 
with  heads  and  busts  draped  in  the  most  brilliant 
shade  of  orange  color.  When  Bora  blows,  the  men 
look  like  monks  or  Mephistopheles;  for  some — the 

25 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

greater  number — wrap  themselves  from  head  to 
foot  in  long-  cloaks  and  hoods  of  brown,  while  others 
of  a  more  lively  temperament  shroud  themselves  in 
red.  They  are  a  handsome  people,  rustic-looking, 
yet  often  noble,  with  kind  yet  bold  faces,  steady 
eyes,  and  a  magnificent  physique.  Their  gait  is  large 
and  loose.  There  are  giants  in  Dalmatia  in  our 
days.  And  many  of  the  women  are  not  only  pretty, 
but  have  delightful  expressions,  open,  pure,  and  gay. 
There  seems  to  be  nothing  to  fear  in  Dalmatia.  I 
have  driven  through  the  wilds,  and  over  the  flanks  of 
the  mountains,  both  in  Dalmatia  and  Herzegovina, 
in  the  dead  of  the  night,  and  had  no  unpleasant  ex- 
perience. The  peasants  have  a  high  reputation  for 
honesty  and  general  probity  as  well  as  for  courage. 
And  beggars  are  scarce,  if  they  exist  at  all,  in  Dal- 
matia. 

Trau  has  a  unique  charm.  The  riviera  of  the  Sette 
Castelli  stretches  between  it  and  Spalato,  along  the 
shore  of  an  inlet  of  the  sea  which  is  exactly  like  a 
blue  lake.  And  what  a  marvelous  blue  it  is  on  a 
cloudless  autumn  day!  Every  one  knows  what  is 
meant  by  a  rapture  of  spring.  Those  who  traverse 
that  riviera  at  the  end  of  October,  or  even  in  the 
opening  days  of  November,  will  know  what  a  rap- 
ture of  autumn  can  be. 

Miles  upon  miles  of  bright-golden  and  rose-red 
vineyards  edge  the  startling  blue  of  the  sea.     And 

26 


TRALT  — VESTIBULE  OF  THE  CATHEDRAL 


the  l>etruit  Publishing  Company 


PICTURESQUE    DALMATIA 

the  vines  are  not  stunted  and  ugly,  but  large,  leafy, 
growing  with  a  rank  luxuriance.  Among  them, 
with  trunks  caught  as  it  were  in  the  warm  embraces 
of  these  troops  of  bacchantes,  are  thousands  of  sil- 
ver-green olive-trees.  And  peasants  in  red,  peasants 
in  orange-color,  move  waist-deep,  sometimes  shoul- 
der-deep, through  the  glory,  under  the  glory  of  the 
sun.  Here  and  there  in  a  grass-grown  clearing,  like 
a  small  islet  in  the  ocean  of  vines,  appears  a  hut  of 
brushwood  and  woven  grasses,  and  under  the  trees 
before  it  sit  peasants  eating  the  grapes  they  have 
just  picked  warm  from  the  plants.  Now  and  then 
a  sportsman  may  be  seen,  in  peasant  costume,  smok- 
ing a  cigarette,  his  gun  over  his  shoulder,  passing 
slowly  with  his  red-brown  dog  among  the  red-gold 
vines.  Xow  and  then  a  distant  report  rings  out 
among  the  olives.  Then  the  w^arm  silence  falls  again 
over  this  rapture  of  autumn.  And  so,  you  come  to 
Trau. 

Trau  is  a  tiny  town  set  on  a  tiny  island  ap- 
proached by  bridges,  medieval,  sleep}^  yet  happy,  al- 
most drowsily  joyous,  in  appearance,  with  that  air 
of  half-gentle,  half-blithe  satisfaction  with  self 
which  makes  so  many  Dalmatian  places  character- 
istic and  almost  touching.  How  odd  to  live  in  Trau! 
Yet  might  it  not  be  a  delicious  experience  to  live  in 
dear  little  Trau  with  the  right  person,  separated 
from  the  world  by   the   shining  water, — for  who 

29 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

comes  over  the  bridges,  when  all  is  said? — guarded 
by  the  lion  and  the  statue  which  crown  the  gateway, 
cradled  in  peace  and  mellow  fruitfulness? 

The  gateway  passed,  a  narrow  alley  or  two 
threaded,  a  corner  turned,  and,  lo!  a  piazza,  a  loggia 
with  fine  old  columns,  a  tiled  roof  and  a  clock-tower, 
a  campanile  and  a  cathedral  with  a  great  porch,  and 
underneath  the  porch  a  marvel  of  a  doorway!  Can 
tiny  Trau  on  its  tiny  island  really  possess  all  this  ? 

The  lion  doorway  of  the  duomo  at  Trau  is  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  finest  things  in  Dalmatia.  The 
duomo  dates  from  the  thirteenth  century,  but  has 
been  twice  enlarged.  It  is  not  large  now,  but  small 
and  high,  dim,  full  of  the  smell  of  stale  incense, 
blackened  by  age,  almost  strangely  silent,  almost 
strangely  secluded.  In  the  choir  is  a  deep  well  with 
an  old  well-head.  There  are  many  tombs  in  the 
pavement.  The  finely  carved  pulpit,  with  its  little 
lion,  and  the  fifteenth-century  choir-stalls  are  well 
worth  seeing,  and  the  roof  of  the  chapel  of  St.  Gio- 
vanni Orsini,  which  contains  a  great  marble  tomb, 
has  been  made  wonderful  by  age,  like  an  old  face 
made  wonderful  by  wrinkles.  But  Radovan's  door- 
way is  certainly  the  marvel  of  Trau.  In  color  it  is  a 
rich,  deep,  dusty  brown,  and  it  is  elaborately  and 
splendidly  carved  with  two  big  lions,  with  Adam  on 
a  lion  and  with  Eve  on  a  lioness.  The  lioness  is 
grasping  a  lamb.  There  is  a  multiplicity  of  other  de- 

30 


p 
< 


PICTURESQ^UE    DALMATIA 

tail.  The  two  big  lions,  which  stick  out  on  each  side 
of  the  round-arched  doorway,  as  if  about  to  step 
forth  into  the  alleys  of  Trau,  have  a  fine  air  of  life, 
though  they  both  look  tame.  Their  mouths  are  open, 
but  almost  smiling. 

When  you  leave  the  duomo,  wander  through  the 
Venetian  streets  of  this  wonderful  little  island  city, 
where  Gothic  windows  and  beautifully  carved  bal- 
conies look  out  to,  lean  forth  to,  the  calm,  blue  wa- 
ters, edged  by  the  red  and  the  gold  of  the  vines.  For 
this  place  is  unique  and  has  an  unique  charm.  Peace 
dwells  here,  and  beauty  has  found  a  quiet  abiding- 
place,  where  it  lingers,  and  will  linger,  I  hope,  for 
many  centuries  yet,  girdled  by  olive-groves,  by  vine- 
yards, by  sun-kissed  waters,  guarded  by  the  lions  of 
Venice. 

From  Spalato  I  visited  the  white  ruins  of  Salona, 
where  the  Emperor  Diocletian  was  born,  and  near 
which.  In  his  palace  at  Spalato,  he  spent  the  last 
eight  years  of  his  life,  cultivating  his  garden,  seek- 
ing after  philosophy,  and,  let  us  hope,  repenting  of 
his  bitter  persecution  of  the  Christians.  From  the 
hill,  on  the  site  of  the  Basilica  Urbana,  I  saw  one  of 
those  frigid  and  almost  terrible  lemon  sunsets  which 
come  with  the  wind  of  the  dead.  I  stayed  till  night 
despite  the  intense  cold,  till  the  fragments  of  the 
city,  scattered  far  over  the  sloping  ground  above  the 
riviera  of  the  Sette  Castelli,  and  creeping  up  to  the 

33 


THE  NEAR  EAST 

solitary  dwelling-house  built  by  Professor  Bulic  of 
old  Roman  stones,  took  on  sad  and  unnatural  pallors 
in  the  darkness,  till  lonely  columns  stood  up  like 
watching  specters,  and  fragments  of  wall  were  like 
specters  crouching.  For  a  long  while  the  lemon  hue 
persisted  in  the  western  sky,  and  the  voice  of  the 
wind  rose  with  the  night,  crying  among  the  burial- 
places. 

A  few  hours'  voyage  on  a  splendid  ship,  and  you 
step  ashore  at  Gravosa,  the  port  for  Ragusa,  the 
most  popular  place  in  Dalmatia,  and  in  many  ways 
the  most  attractive.  For  it  is  embowered  in  woods 
and  gardens;  contains  remarkable  old  buildings;  is 
girdled  about  by  tremendous  fortress  walls,  and  by 
forts  perched  on  bastions  of  rock  overlooking  the  sea 
and  the  isle  of  Lacroma,  where  Richard  Cceur  de 
Lion  touched  land  and  founded  a  monastery;  is 
thoroughly  and  deliciously  medieval,  yet  full  of  Slav 
and  Austrian  life;  possesses  a  railway-station,  many 
well-built  villas,  and  a  good  hotel,  and  is  surrounded 
by  delightful  country.  Perhaps  in  all  Dalmatia  Ra- 
gusa is  the  best  center  from  which  to  take  long  walks 
and  make  expeditions.  It  is  cheery,  cozy,  and  won- 
derful at  the  same  time.  The  terrific  walls  of  the 
fortresses  do  not  appal  or  overwhelm,  for  all  about 
them  cluster  the  gardens.  Ivy  climbs  over  the  arch- 
ways. In  what  was  once  a  moat  the  grass  grows 
thickly,  the  flowers  bloom,  and  many  trees  give 

34 


PICTURESQUE   DALMATIA 

shade.  This  is  a  medieval  paradise,  and  its  inhabi- 
tants have  reason  to  rejoice  in  it  and  to  say  there  is 
no  place  like  it. 

Though  small,  it  is  intricate.  At  every  moment 
One  is  surprised  by  some  unexpected  view^,  by  some 
marvel  of  masonry,  militant  or  ecclesiastical;  by  a 
fountain  or  a  statue,  an  old  doorw^ay,  a  courtyard,  a 
campanile,  an  exquisite  facade,  with  arches  and 
lovely  columns,  balconies  and  carved  w^indow- 
frames;  by  cloisters,  a  strange  alley  ending  in  flights 
of  steps,  which  lead  to  a  mountain  from  which  a  fort 
looks  down;  by  a  secret  harbor,  or  a  secret  garden, 
or  a  little  magical  grove  nestling  beneath  a  protect- 
ing wall  which  dates  from  the  Middle  Ages,  when 
Ragusa  was  a  proud  republic. 

Was  Burne-Jones  ever  in  Ragusa?  It  is  like  one 
of  the  little  enchanted  towns  he  loved  to  paint  in  the 
backgrounds  of  his  pictures.  Was  William  Morris 
ever  there  ?  It  is  like  a  city  in  one  of  his  poems.  It  is 
full  of  churches,  and  their  towers  are  full  of  bells. 
Monks  and  priests  pass  perpetually  through  the  nar- 
row streets  with  smartly  dressed  Austrian  soldiers. 
And  military  music,  the  triumph  of  bugles  and  trum- 
pets, the  beat  and  rattle  of  drums,  joins  with  the 
drowsy  sound  of  church  organs,  and  the  old  voices 
of  clocks  chiming  the  hours,  to  make  the  symphony 
of  Ragusa.  Men  and  women  from  the  Breno  Valley, 
from  Canali  the  golden,  where  oaks  grow  among  the 

35 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

rocks,  and  the  autumn  vineyards  are  a  wonder  for- 
ever to  haunt  the  memory,  from  Melada  and  the 
Stag  Islands,  from  the  Ombla  and  Herzegovina,  pass 
all  day  down  ''the  Stradone,"  stroll  in  the  Brsalje, 
a  piazza  with  mulberry-trees  overlooking  the  sea, 
talk  by  the  Amerling  fountain,  or  sit  on  the  wall  by 
Porta  Pille  under  the  statue  of  San  Biagio,  the 
patron  saint  of  the  town.  And  each  one  is  in  a  pic- 
turesque, perhaps  even  a  brilliant,  costume.  The 
men  often  wear  long  chains,  and  carry  handsomely 
chased  weapons  and  long,  elaborate  pipes.  Some 
have  sheepskins  flung  jauntily  over  their  shoulders, 
and  bright-red  caps.  The  women  wear  golden  orna- 
ments, embroidered  jackets,  and  marvelous  aprons 
almost  like  prayer-rugs,  handsome  pins,  pleated 
head-dresses,  bright-colored  handkerchiefs  or  tiny 
caps,  coins  hanging  on  chains  over  their  thickly 
growing  hair. 

The  chief  hotels,  the  villas,  and  the  railway-sta- 
tion, where  a  row  of  victorias  is  drawn  up, — for  this 
is  no  Zara,  but  a  city  which  believes  that  it  "moves 
with  the  times," — lie  among  roses,  oleanders,  single 
rhododendrons,  trees,  and  masses  of  luxuriant  vege- 
tation outside  Porta  Pille.  As  soon  as  you  have 
passed  beneath  San  Biagio  and  descended  the  hill, 
you  are  in  a  bright,  medieval  world,  in  the  heart  of 
one  of  the  most  original  and  fascinating  little  cities 
that  exists  in  Europe. 

3^ 


THE  RECTOR'S  PALACE  AND  THE  PUBLIC 
SQUARE  AT  RAGUS A 


PICTURESQUE   DALMATIA 

On  the  left  of  the  Stradone,  the  chief  street  and 
the  newest,  between  two  and  three  hundred  years 
old,  at  right  angles  to  it,  shadowed  by  tall  and  an- 
cient houses,  tiny  alleys,  ending  in  steep  flights  of 
steps,  lead  up  toward  the  mountain.  On  the  flat  to 
its  right  is  a  happy  maze  of  alleys,  clean,  strange, 
old,  yet  never  sad.  A  delicious  cheerfulness  reigns 
in  Ragusa.  From  the  dimness  of  venerable  door- 
ways smiling  faces  look  forth.  They  lean  down 
from  carved  stone  balconies.  Gay  voices  chatter  at 
the  foot  of  frowning  walls,  huge  bastions,  mighty 
watch-towers;  before  the  statue  of  Roland,  near  the 
Dogana  which  has  a  loggia  and  Gothic  windows;  by 
the  fine  and  massive  Onofrio  fountain,  which  for 
over  four  hundred  and  seventy  years  has  given  wa- 
ter to  the  inhabitants;  among  the  doves  by  Porta 
Place,  which  leads  to  the  harbor.  The  wide,  but 
intimate,  Stradone  toward  noon  and  evening  is 
thronged  with  cheerful  and  neatly  dressed  citizens, 
strolling  to  and  fro  in  the  soft  air  between  the  de- 
licious little  shops  full  of  fine  rugs,  weapons,  chains, 
and  filigree  ornaments. 

Opposite  the  fountain  of  Onofrio  are  the  church, 
monastery,  and  cloisters  of  the  Franciscans,  with  a 
courtyard  and  an  old  pharmacy  containing  some 
wonderful  vases.  At  the  east  end  of  the  Stradone, 
away  to  the  right,  are  the  church  of  San  Biagio,  the 
cathedral,  and  the  Palazzo  dei  Rettori.  On  the  other 

39 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

side  of  the  street  are  the  miUtary  hospital  and  the 
church  of  the  Jesuits.  Not  far  away  is  the  Domini- 
can monastery. 

Of  these  the  most  remarkable  is  the  rector's  pal- 
ace. But  the  cloisters  of  the  Franciscans  are  beauti- 
ful and  hold  an  extraordinary  charm  and  peace.  The 
rector's  palace  is  a  noble  Renaissance  building,  with 
a  courtyard  containing  a  very  handsome  staircase, 
and  with  a  really  splendid  fifteenth-century  colon- 
nade fronting  the  piazza.  The  carving  of  the 
capitals  of  the  columns  is  wonderfully  effective. 
Three  are  said  to  be  inferior  to  the  remaining  four, 
which  were  the  work  of  an  architect  of  Naples,  Ono- 
frio.  But  all  are  remarkable.  The  little  winged 
boys  have  a  tenderness  and  liveliness,  a  softness  and 
activity,  which  are  quite  exquisite.  The  windows  of 
Venetian  Gothic  are  beautiful;  and  the  whole  effect 
of  this  fagade,  with  its  carved  doorway,  the  round 
arches,  richly  dark,  with  notes  of  white,  the  two  tiers 
of  stone  seats  raised  one  above  the  other,  and  the 
double  rows  of  windows,  square  and  arched,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  colonnade,  is  absolutely  noble. 

The  cathedral  is  not  very  interesting,  and  the 
"Assumption"  over  the  high  altar,  though  attrib- 
uted to  Titian,  cannot  be  by  him.  Much  more  at- 
tractive is  a  copy  of  the  Madonna  della  Sedia  of 
Raphael.  The  treasury  contains  some  remarkable 
jewels  and  silver  and  many  relics. 

40 


PICTURESQUE    DALMATIA 

In  the  Dominican  church  there  is  a  genuine  Titian, 
and  there  are  some  very  curious  and  interesting  pic- 
tures by  Nicolo  Ragusano,  a  painter  of  Ragusa  who 
lived  in  the  fifteenth  century.  The  cloisters  contain 
a  white  well-head,  guarded  by  graceful  columns, 
orange-trees,  and  flowers,  above  which  peer  the 
small  windows  of  the  monks.  But  if  one  had  to  be  a 
monk  in  Ragusa,  surely  it  would  be  wise  to  cast  in 
your  lot  with  the  Franciscans  at  the  other  end  of  the 
street,  whose  Romanesque  fourteenth-century  clois- 
ters with  octagonal  columns  are  quite  beautiful  and 
in  excellent  preservation.  The  capitals  of  the  col- 
umns are  carved  with  animals.  Palms  flourish  there, 
and  roses.  Above,  a  terrace,  with  a  wonderful  balus- 
trade— a  series  of  tiny  arches  resting  on  tiny  col- 
umns, a  sort  of  stone  echo  of  the  arches  and  columns 
below, — runs  all  round  the  court.  The  peace  is 
profound,  but  not  sad.  As  one  lingers  there  one  can 
understand,  indeed  one  can  scarcely  help  under- 
standing, the  very  peculiar  charm  which  must  often 
attach  to  the  monkish  life. 

Ragusa  contains  some  nine  thousand  inhabitants. 
One  of  them  remarked  that  eight  hundred  of  these 
were  ecclesiastics.  And  he  was  unsympathetic 
enough  to  add,  "E  molto  troppo !"  Perhaps  his  state- 
ment was  untrue.  But  certainly  the  ways  of  Ragusa 
swarm  with  religious.  Nevertheless, — one  thinks  of 
Rome,  with  its  crowds  of  priests  and  its  crowds  of 

41 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

free-thinkers, — the  inhabitants  of  Ragusa  seem  to 
be  very  devout.  In  almost  all  of  the  many  churches, 
at  all  times  of  the  day,  people  may  be  found  pray- 
ing, meditating,  telling  their  beads,  worshiping  at 
shrines  of  the  saints. 

Around  Ragusa  there  are  many  beautiful  walks, 
on  Lacroma,  on  Lapad  by  Gravosa,  on  Monte  Ser- 
gio, on  Monte  Petka.  A  really  superb  drive  is  the 
expedition  to  Castelnuovo  in  the  Bocche  di  Cattaro, 
along  the  Dalmatian  riviera,  which  is  as  fine  as  al- 
most any  part  of  the  French  riviera,  and  which  is 
still  wild  and  natural,  not  yet  turned  into  a  vanity- 
box.  Those  who  take  this  glorious  drive  will  cross 
the  frontier  into  Herzegovina,  and,  best  of  all,  they 
will  pass  by  the  wonderful  vineyards  of  Canali, 
which  roll  in  waves  of  gold  to  the  very  feet  of  a  chain 
of  naked  and  savage  mountains. 

The  voyage  from  Ragusa  to  Cattaro  is  one  of  the 
finest  in  Europe.  The  entrance  into  the  bocche,  the 
journey  through  them,  and  the  arrival  at  Cattaro, 
hidden  away  like  some  precious  thing  that  must  not 
be  revealed  to  the  dull  gaze  of  the  ordinary  world, 
almost,  but  mercifully  not  quite,  under  the  giant 
shadow  of  the  Black  Mountain,  make  for  the  voy- 
ager what  comes  to  seem  at  length  a  deliberately 
planned,  and  triumphantly  carried  out,  scenic  cres- 
cendo, which  closes  in  sheer  magic. 

The  coast  of  Dalmatia  is  guarded  by  chains  of 

42 


PICTURESQUE   DALMATIA 

islands  and  is  pierced  by  many  long  and  narrow  in- 
lets. During  the  voyage  from  Triest  or  Fiume  to 
the  extreme  south  of  the  country,  the  ship,  often  for 
many  hours,  seems  to  be  traveling  over  a  series  of 
lakes.  Rarely  does  she  emerge  into  open  water.  But 
between  Gravosa  and  the  bocche  there  is  open  sea. 
Nature  has  not  neglected  to  make  her  preparations. 
She  gives  you  the  stretch  of  open  sea  as  a  contrast  to 
what  is  coming.  And  just  when  you  are  beginning 
to  feel  its  monotony,  the  prow  of  the  vessel  veers  to 
the  left,  seems  to  be  sensitively  searching  for  some 
unseen  opening  in  the  rugged  coast.  She  finds  that 
opening  between  Punta  d'Ostro  and  Punta  d'Arza, 
leaving  the  little  isle  of  Rondoni,  with  its  round,  yel- 
low fort,  on  the  right  and  the  open  sea  behind. 

The  mountains  which  guard  the  bocche  are  nearly 
six  thousand  feet  high,  bare,  cruelly  precipitous,  in 
color  a  peculiar,  almost  ashy,  gray.  When  you  are 
at  a  long  distance  from  them  they  seem  to  descend 
sheer  into  the  water;  but  as  you  draw  nearer  over 
the  waveless  sea,  you  find  that  along  their  bases  runs 
a  strip  of  beautiful  fertile  country,  green,  thickly 
wooded  in  many  places,  with  gay  little  villages  set 
among  radiant  gardens,  with  a  white  highroad, 
along  which  peasants  are  passing.  There  is  Castel- 
nuovo  on  its  hill  among  leafy  groves,  with  its  old, 
narrow  fortress  on  the  rock  fought  for  by  Turks  and 
Venetians;  near  by  is  Zelenika;  and  there  another 

43 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

large  fortress,  with  the  Austrian  tlag  above  it.    The 
sensitive  prow  of  the  ship  veers  again,  this  time  to 
the  southeast,  where  the  ash-gray  precipices  surely 
hold  the  sea  forever  in  check.     But  the  ship  knows 
better.    The  Canale  di  Kumbur  shows  Itself,  leading 
to  the  splendid  Bay  of  Teodo  surreptitiously  ob- 
served from  afar  by  the  mountains  of  Montenegro. 
If  you  held  your  breath  and  listened,  might  you  not 
hear  the  boom  of  guns  by  the  lake  of  Scutari?    All 
sense  of  being  at  sea  fades  from  you  as  the  ship  pene- 
trates ever  more  deeply  into  the  secret  recesses  of 
the  mountains.     This  is  like  superb  lake  scenery, 
austere,  grand,   almost  terrible,   and  yet   radiant. 
Nature  is  even  coquettish  on  this  perfect  morning  of 
autumn,  for  in  these  remoter  regions  she  has  cast  a 
swathe  of  the  lightest  and  whitest  possible  mist,  like 
one  of  those  scarfs  of  Tunis,  over  the  cultivated  land 
wdiich  edges  the  precipices.    As  the  ship  draws  near, 
the  mist  seems  to  disperse  in  a  sparkle  of  gold,  re- 
vealing intimate  beauties,  full  of  charming  detail:  a 
little  Byzantine  church  with  a  pale-green  cupola,  a 
priest  In  a  sunny  garden  leaning  over  a  creeper-cov- 
ered wall,  white  horses  trotting  briskly  along  a 
curly,  white  road,  soldiers  marching  through  a  vil- 
lage with  a  faint  beat  of  drums,  children  perhaps 
going  to  school  through  a  riot  of  green.     But  the 
mist  Is  ever  there  In  the  distance,  part  of  the  spirit  of 
autumn. 

44 


THE  JESUITS'   CHURCH  AND  THE   MILITARY 
HOSPITAL,  RAGUSA 


I-'roin  a  photo>,'rapti  by  the  Detroit  Publishins:  Company 


PICTURESQUE    DALMATIA 

Do  not  miss  the  tiny  twin  islands  with  their  two 
little  churches.  One  of  them,  Santa  Maria  dello 
Scalpello,  is  a  place  of  pilgrimage.  Old,  gray,  mi- 
nute yet  dignified,  with  its  few  tall  cypresses  about 
it,  it  so  completely  covers  the  island  that  you  see  only 
a  church  with  cypresses  apparently  floating  upon 
the  water.  Now  there  is  a  scatter  of  ivory-white 
birds  on  the  steel-colored  surface,  a  glint  of  powder- 
blue  on  the  ridges  made  by  the  ship.  Marvelous 
harmonies  of  pearl  color,  gray,  and  blue,  with  here 
and  there  faint  dashes  of  primrose-yellow,  make 
magic  in  the  distance  before  you.  This  is  really  an 
enchanted  place,  home  of  a  peace  that  seems  touched 
with  eternity.  And  the  ship  creeps  on,  as  if  fearing 
perhaps  to  disturb  it,  farther  and  farther  into  places 
more  secret  still,  and  of  a  peace  even  more  profound, 
till  the  pearl  color  and  the  gray,  with  their  hints  of 
yellow^  and  blue,  begin  to  give  way  to  another 
dominion.  The  last  bay  has  been  gained.  The  secret 
of  Cattaro  is  to  be  at  length  revealed.  Through  the 
wondrous  delicacies  of  the  now  rather  suggested 
than  actually  seen  mist,  and  above  them,  dawns  a 
marvelous  pageant  of  autumn,  which  bears  a  curi- 
ously exact  resemblance  to  one  of  Turner's  superb 
visions. 

It  Is  like  a  dream,  but  a  dream  of  ardor  and  power, 
in  which  browns,  reds,  russets,  greens,  and  many 
shades  of  gold  and  of  yellow  march  together  from 

47 


THE    NEAR    EAST 

the  circle  of  the  waters  through  cHmbing  valleys  to 
the  mountains,  which  here  at  last  give  pause  to  the 
sea.  And  bells  are  ringing  in  this  great,  this  tri- 
umphant dream.  And  now  surely  faint  outlines  are 
becoming  visible,  as  of  turrets  and  cupolas  striving 
to  break  in  glory  through  the  mist.  The  fires  of 
autumn  glow  more  fiercely,  like  a  furnace  fanned. 
Trails  of  smoke  show  here  and  there.  Mist,  smoke, 
and  fire — it  is  like  a  grand  conflagration.  The  tur- 
rets reveal  themselves  as  great  groups  of  trees.  But 
the  smoke  rises  from  household  fires;  the  cupolas  are 
cupolas  of  churches;  and  the  bells  are  the  bells  of 
Cattaro,  calling  from  this  vale  of  enchantment  to 
the  cannon  which  are  thundering  before  Scutari  be- 
yond the  mountains  of  Montenegro. 


48 


IN  AND  NEAR  ATHENS 


THE  PARTHENON   AT   ATHENS 


Chapter  II 
IN  AND  NEAR  ATHENS 

WHAT  Greece  is  like  in  spring,  I  do  not  know, 
when  rains  have  fallen,  and  round  Athens 
the  country  is  green,  when  the  white  dust 
perhaps  does  not  whirl  through  Constitution  Square 
and  over  the  garden  about  the  Zappeion,  when  the 
intensity  of  the  sun  is  not  fierce  on  the  road  to  the 
bare  Acropolis,  and  the  guardians  of  the  Parthenon, 
in  their  long  coats  the  color  of  a  dervish's  hat,  do  not 
fall  asleep  in  the  patches  of  shade  cast  on  the  hot 
ground  by  Doric  columns.  I  was  there  at  the  end  of 
the  summer,  and  many  said  to  me,  ''You  should 
come  in  spring,  when  it  is  green." 

Greece  must  be  very  different  then,  but  can  it  be 
much  more  beautiful  ? 

Disembark  at  the  Piraeus  at  dawn,  take  a  carriage, 
and  drive  by  Phalerum,  the  bathing-place  of  the 
Athenians,  to  Athens  at  the  end  of  the  summer,  and 
though  for  just  six  months  no  rain  has  fallen,  you 
will  enter  a  bath  of  dew.  The  road  is  dry  and  dusty, 
but  there  is  no  wind,  and  the  dust  lies  still.     The 

-  '"> 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

atmosphere  is  marvelously  clear,  as  it  is,  say,  at  Is- 
mailia  in  the  early  morning.  The  Hellenes,  when 
they  are  talking  quite  naturally,  if  they  speak  of 
Europe,  always  speak  of  it  as  a  continent  in  which 
Greece  is  not  included.  They  talk  of  ''going  to 
Europe."  They  say  to  the  English  stranger,  "You 
come  to  us  fresh  from  Europe."  And  as  you  drive 
toward  Athens  you  understand. 

This  country  is  part  of  the  East,  although  the 
Greeks  were  the  people  who  saved  Europe  from 
being  dominated  by  the  races  of  Asia.  All  about  you 
— you  have  not  yet  reached  Phalerum — you  see 
country  that  looks  like  the  beginning  of  a  desert, 
that  holds  a  fascination  of  the  desert.  The  few 
trees  stand  up  like  carved  things.  The  small.  East- 
ern-looking houses,  many  of  them  with  flat  roofs, 
earth-colored,  white,  or  tinted  with  mauve  and  pale 
colors,  scattered  casually  and  apparently  without 
any  plan  over  the  absolutely  bare  and  tawny  ground, 
look  from  a  distance  as  if  they,  too,  were  carved,  as  if 
they  were  actually  a  part  of  the  substance  of  their 
environment,  not  imposed  upon  it  by  an  outside 
force.  The  moving  figure  of  a  man,  wearing  the 
white  fustanella,  has  the  strange  beauty  of  an  Arab 
moving  alone  in  the  vast  sands.  And  yet  there  is 
something  here  that  is  certainly  not  of  Europe,  but 
that  is  not  wholly  of  the  East — something  very  deli- 
cate, very  pure,  very  sensitive,  very  individual,  free 

54 


> 


X 

> 
n 

o 

■-0 

O 

r 


IN   AND    NEAR   ATHENS 

from  the  Eastern  drowsiness,  from  the  heavy  East- 
ern perfume  which  disposes  the  soul  of  man  to 
inertia. 

It  is  the  exquisite,  vital,  one  might  almost  say  in- 
tellectual, freshness  of  Greece  which,  between  Eu- 
rope and  Asia,  preserves  its  eternal  dewdrops — 
those  dewdrops  which  still  make  it  the  land  of  the 
early  morning-. 

Your  carriage  turns  to  the  right,  and  in  a  moment 
you  are  driving  along  the  shore  of  a  sea  without 
wave  or  even  ripple.  In  the  distance,  across  the  pur- 
ple water,  is  the  calm  mountain  of  the  island  of 
^gina.  Over  there,  along  the  curve  of  the  sandy 
bay,  are  the  clustering  houses  of  old  Phalerum.  This 
is  new  Phalerum,  with  its  wooden  bath-houses,  its 
one  great  hotel,  its  kiosks  and  cafes,  its  shadeless 
plage,  deserted  now  except  for  one  old  gentleman 
who,  like  almost  every  Greek  all  over  the  country,  is 
at  this  moment  reading  a  newspaper  in  the  sun. 

Is  there  any  special  charm  in  new  Phalerum,  bare 
of  trees,  a  little  cockney  of  aspect,  any  exceptional 
beauty  in  this  bay?  When  you  have  bathed  there  a 
few  times,  when  you  have  walked  along  the  shore  in 
the  quiet  evening,  breathing  the  exquisite  air,  when 
you  have  dined  in  a  cafe  of  old  Phalerum  built  out 
into  the  sea,  and  come  back  by  boat  through  the  sil- 
ver of  a  moon  to  the  little  tram  station  whence  you 
return  to  Athens,  you  will  probably  find  that  there 

57 


THE    NEAR   EAST 

is.  And  from  what  other  bay  can  you  see  the  tem- 
ple of  the  Parthenon  as  you  see  it  from  the  bay  of 
Phalerum? 

You  have  your  first  vision  of  it  now,  as  you  look 
away  from  the  sea,  lifted  very  high  on  its  great  rock 
of  the  Acropolis  as  on  a  throne.  Though  far  ofY, 
nevertheless  its  majesty  is  essentially  the  same, 
casts  the  same  tremendous  influence  upon  you  here 
as  it  does  when  you  stand  at  the  very  feet  of  its 
mighty  columns.  At  once  you  know,  not  because  of 
the  legend  of  greatness  attaching  to  it,  or  because  of 
the  historical  associations  clinging  about  it,  but  sim- 
ply because  of  the  feeling  in  your  own  soul  roused 
by  its  white  silhouette  in  this  morning  hour,  that  the 
soul  of  Greece — eternal  majesty,  supreme  greatness, 
divine  calm,  and  that  remoteness  from  which,  per- 
haps, no  perfect  thing,  either  God-made  or,  because 
of  God's  breath  in  him,  man-made,  is  wholly  exempt 
—is  lifted  high  before  you  under  the  cloudless 
heaven  of  dawn. 

-  You  may  even  realize  at  once  and  forever,  as  you 
send  on  your  carriage  and  stand  for  a  while  quite 
alone  on  the  sands,  gazing,  that  to  you  the  soul  of 
Greece  must  always  seem  to  be  Doric.  From  afar 
the  Doric  conquers. 

The  ancient  Hellenes,  divided,  at  enmity,  inces- 
santly warring  among  themselves,  were  united  in 
one  sentiment:  they  called  all  the  rest  of  the  nations 

S8 


IN   AND    NEAR   ATHENS 

''barbarians."  The  Parthenon  gives  them  reason. 
"Unintelligible  folk"  to  this  day  must  acknowledge 
it,  using  the  word  "barbarian"  strictly  in  our  mod- 
ern sense. 

But  the  sun  is  higher,  the  morning  draws  on;  you 
must  be  gone  to  Athens.  Down  the  long,  straight, 
new  road,  between  row^s  of  pepper-trees,  passing  a 
little  church  which  marks  the  spot  where  a  mis- 
creant tried  to  assassinate  King  George,  and  always 
through  beautiful,  bare  country  like  the  desert,  you 
drive.  And  presently  you  see  a  few  houses,  like  the 
houses  of  a  quiet  village;  a  few  great  Corinthian  col- 
umns rising  up  in  a  lonely  place  beyond  an  arch 
tawny  with  old  gold;  a  public  garden  looking  new 
but  pleasant, — not  unlike  a  desert  garden  at  the 
edge  of  the  Suez  Canal, — with  a  white  statue  (it  is 
the  statue  of  Byron)  before  it;  then  a  long,  thick 
tangle  of  trees  stretching  far,  and  separated  from 
the  road  and  a  line  of  large  apartment-houses  only 
by  an  old  and  slight  wooden  paling;  a  big  square 
with  a  garden  sunken  below  the  level  you  are  on, 
and  on  your  right  a  huge,  bare  white  building  rather 
like  a  barracks.  You  are  in  Athens,  and  you  have 
seen  already  the  Olympieion,  the  Arch  of  Hadrian, 
the  Zappeion  garden,  Constitution  Square,  and  the 
garden  and  the  palace  of  the  king. 

Coming  to  Athens  for  the  first  time  by  this  route, 
it  is  difficult  to  believe  one  is  in  the  famous  capital, 

59 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

even  though  one  has  seen  the  Acropohs.  And  I 
never  quite  lost  the  feeling  there  that  I  was  in  a  de- 
lightful village,  containing  a  cheery,  bustling  life, 
some  fine  modern  buildings,  and  many  wonders  of 
the  past.  Yet  Athens  is  large  and  is  continually 
growing.  One  of  the  best  and  most  complete  views 
of  it  is  obtained  from  the  terrace  near  the  Acropolis 
Museum,  behind  the  Parthenon.  Other  fine  views 
can  be  had  from  Lycabettus,  the  solitary  and  fierce- 
looking  hill  against  whose  rocks  the  town  seems  al- 
most to  surge,  like  a  wave  striving  to  overwhelm  it, 
and  from  that  other  hill,  immediately  facing  the 
Acropolis,  on  which  stands  the  monument  of  Philo- 
pappos. 

It  is  easy  to  ascend  to  the  summit  of  the  Acropolis, 
even  in  the  fierce  heat  of  a  summer  day.  A  stroll  up 
a  curving  road,  the  mounting  of  some  steps,  and  you 
are  there,  five  hundred  and  ten  feet  only  above  the 
level  of  the  sea.  But  on  account  of  the  solitary  situa- 
tion of  the  plateau  of  rock  on  which  the  temples  are 
grouped  and  of  its  precipitous  sides,  it  seems  very 
much  higher  than  it  is.  Whenever  I  stood  on  the 
summit  of  the  Acropolis  I  felt  as  if  I  were  on  the 
peak  of  a  mountain,  as  if  from  there  one  must  be  able 
to  see  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  and  the  glory  of 
them. 

What  one  does  see  is  marvelously,  almost  ineffa- 
bly beautiful.    Herodotus  called  this  land,  with  its 

60 


From  a  ph< 


THE  THEATER  OF  DIONYSUS  ON  THE   SOUTHERN 
SLOPE  OF  THE  ACROPOLIS 


IN   AND   NEAR   ATHENS 

stony  soil  and  its  multitudes  of  bare  mountains,  the 
"rugged  nurse  of  liberty."  Though  rugged,  and 
often  naked,  nevertheless  its  loveliness — and  that 
soft  word  must  be  used — is  so  great  and  so  pure  that, 
as  we  give  to  Greek  art  the  crown  of  wild  olive,  so  we 
must  give  it  surely  also  to  the  scenery  of  Greece.  It 
is  a  loveliness  of  outline,  of  color,  and  above  all  of 
light. 

Almost  everywhere  in  Greece  you  see  mountains, 
range  upon  range,  closing  about  you  or,  more  often, 
melting  away  into  far  distances,  into  outlines  of 
shadows  and  dreams.  Almost  everywhere,  or  so  it 
seemed  to  me,  you  look  upon  the  sea.  And  as  the 
outlines  of  the  mountains  of  Greece  are  nearly  al- 
ways divinely  calm,  so  the  colors  of  the  seas  of 
Greece  are  magically  deep  and  radiant  and  varied. 
And  over  mountains  and  seas  fall  changing  wonders 
of  light,  giving  to  outline  eternal  meanings,  to  color 
the  depth  of  a  soul.  ^ 

When  you  stand  upon  the  Acropolis  you  see  not 
only  ruins  which,  taking  everything  into  considera- 
tion, are  perhaps  the  most  wonderful  in  the  world, 
but  also  one  of  the  most  beautiful  views  of  the 
world.  It  is  asserted  as  a  fact  by  authorities  that  the 
ancient  Greeks  had  little  or  no  feeling  for  beauty  of 
landscape.  One  famous  waiter  on  things  Greek 
states  that  "a  fine  view  as  such  had  little  attraction 
for  them,"  that  is,  the  Greeks.    It  is  very  difficult  for 

63 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

those  who  are  famihar  with  the  sites  the  Greeks  se- 
lected for  their  great  temples  and  theaters,  such  as 
the  rock  of  the  Acropolis,  the  heights  at  Sunium  and 
at  Argos,  the  hill  at  Taormina  in  Sicily,  etc.,  to  feel 
assured  of  this,  however  lacking  in  allusion  to  the 
beauty  of  nature,  unless  in  connection  with  sup- 
posed animating  intelligences,  Greek  literature  may 
be.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  believe  it  as  you  stand 
on  the  Acropolis. 

All  Athens  lies  beneath  you,  pale,  almost  white, 
with  hints  of  mauve  and  yellow,  gray  and  brown, 
with  its  dominating  palace,  its  tiny  Byzantine 
churches,  its  tiled  and  flat  roofs,  its  solitary  cypress- 
trees  and  gardens.  Lycabettus  stands  out,  small, 
but  bold,  almost  defiant.  Beyond,  and  on  every  side, 
stretches  the  calm  plain  of  Attica.  That  winding 
river  of  dust  marks  the  Via  Sacra,  along  which  the 
great  processions  used  to  pass  to  Eleusis  by  the  wa- 
ter. There  are  the  dark  groves  of  Academe,  a  place 
of  rest  in  a  bare  land.  The  marble  quarries  gleam 
white  on  the  long  flanks  of  Mount  Pentelicus,  and 
the  great  range  of  Parnes  leads  on  to  ^galeos. 
Near  you  are  the  Hill  of  the  Nymphs,  with  its  obser- 
vatory; the  rocky  plateau  from  which  the  apostle 
Paul  spoke  of  Christ  to  the  doubting  Athenians;  the 
new  plantation  at  the  foot  of  Philopappos  which 
surrounds  the  so-called  ''Prison  of  Socrates." 
Honey-famed  Hymettus,  gray  and  patient,  stretches 

64 


THE    TEMPLE  OF  THE   OLYMPIAN   ZEUS  AT  ATHENS 


IN   AND   NEAR   ATHENS 

toward  the  sea — toward  the  shining  Saronic  Gulf 
and  the  bay  of  Phalerum.  And  there,  beyond  Pha- 
lerum,  are  the  Piraeus  and  Salamis.  Mount  Elias 
rules  over  the  midmost  isle  of  ^gina.  Beneath  the 
height  of  Sunium,  where  the  Temple  of  Poseidon 
still  lifts  blanched  columns  above  the  passing  mari- 
ners who  have  no  care  for  the  sea-god's  glory,  lies 
the  islet  of  Gaidaronisi,  and  the  mountains  of  Meg- 
ara  and  of  Argolis  lie  like  dreaming  shadows  in  the 
sunlight.  Very  pure,  very  perfect,  is  this  great  view. 
Nature  here  seems  purged  of  all  excesses,  and  even 
nature  in  certain  places  can  look  almost  theatrical, 
though  never  in  Greece.  The  sea  shines  with  gold, 
is  decked  with  marvelous  purple,  glimmers  afar  with 
silver,  fades  into  the  color  of  shadow.  The  shapes  of 
the  mountains  are  as  serene  as  the  shapes  of  Greek 
statues.  Though  bare,  these  mountains  are  not 
savage,  are  not  desolate  or  sad.  Nor  is  there  here 
any  suggestion  of  that  ''oppressive  beauty"  against 
which  the  American  painter-poet  Frederic  Crownin- 
shield  cries  out  in  a  recent  poem — of  that  beauty 
which  weighs  upon,  rather  than  releases,  the  heart 
of  man.  *- 

From  this  view  you  turn  to  behold  the  Parthenon. 
A  writer  who  loved  Greece  more  than  all  other  coun- 
tries, who  was  steeped  in  Greek  knowledge,  and  who 
was  deeply  learned  in  archaeology,  has  left  it  on  rec- 
ord that  on  his  first  visit  to  the  Acropolis  he  was 

67 


THE   NEAR  EAST 

aware  of  a  feeling  of  disappointment.  His  heart 
bled  over  the  ravages  wrought  by  man  in  this  sacred 
place — that  Turkish  powder-magazine  in  the  Par- 
thenon which  a  shell  from  Venetians  blew  up,  the 
stolen  lions  which  saw  Italy,  the  marbles  carried  to 
an  English  museum,  the  statues  by  Phidias  which 
clumsy  workmen  destroyed. 

But  so  incomparably  noble,  so  majestically  grand 
is  this  sublime  ruin,  that  the  first  near  view  of  it  must 
surely  fill  many  hearts  with  an  awe  which  can  leave 
no  room  for  any  other  feeling.  It  is  incomplete,  but 
not  the  impression  it  creates. 

The  Parthenon,  as  it  exists  to-day,  shattered,  al- 
most entirely  roofless,  deprived  of  its  gilding  and 
color,  its  glorious  statues,  its  elaborate  and  wonder- 
ful friezes,  its  lions,  its  golden  oil-jars,  its  Athene 
Parthenos  of  gold  and  ivory,  the  mere  naked  shell  of 
what  it  once  was,  is  stupendous.  No  memory  of  the 
gigantic  ruins  of  Egypt,  however  familiarly  known, 
can  live  in  the  mind,  can  make  even  the  puniest  fight 
for  existence,  before  this  Doric  front  of  Pentelic 
marble,  simple,  even  plain,  but  still  in  its  devastation 
supreme.  The  size  is  great,  but  one  has  seen  far 
greater  ruins.  The  fluted  columns,  lifted  up  on  the 
marble  stylobate  which  has  been  trodden  by  the  feet 
of  Pericles  and  Phidias,  are  huge  in  girth,  and  rise  to 
a  height  of  between  thirty  and  forty  feet.  The  archi- 
trave above  their  plain  capitals,  with  its  projecting 

68 


IN  THE  PORTICO  OF  THE  PARTHENON 


IK  AND   NEAR  ATHENS 

molding,  is  tremendously  massive.  The  walls  of  the 
cella,  or  sanctuary  of  the  temple,  where  they  still 
remain,  are  immense.  But  now,  where  dimness 
reigned, — for  in  the  days  when  the  temple  was  com- 
plete no  light  could  enter  it  except  through  the 
doorway, — the  sunlight  has  full  possession.  And 
from  what  was  once  a  hidden  place  the  passing  trav- 
eler can  look  out  over  land  and  sea. 

Some  learned  men  have  called  the  Parthenon 
severe.  It  is  wonderfully  simple,  so  simple  that  it  is 
not  easy  to  say  exactly  why  it  produces  such  an 
overpowering  impression  of  sublimity  and  grandeur. 
But  it  is  not  severe,  for  in  severity  there  is  something 
repellent,  something  that  frowns.  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  impression  created  by  the  Parthenon  as  a 
building  is  akin  to  that  created  by  the  Sphinx  as  a 
statue.  It  suggests — seems  actually  to  send  out  like 
an  atmosphere — a  tremendous  calm,  far  beyond  the 
limits  of  any  severity.       

The  whole  of  the  Parthenon,  except  the  founda- 
tions, is  of  Pentelic  marble.  And  this  marble  is  so 
beautiful  a  substance  now  after  centuries  of  ex- 
posure on  a  bare  height  to  the  fires  of  the  sun,  to  the 
sea-winds  and  the  rains  of  winter,  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  wish  it  gilded,  and  painted  with  blue  and 
crimson.  From  below  in  the  plain,  and  from  a  long 
distance,  the  temple  looks  very  pale  in  color,  often 
indeed  white.  But  when  you  stand  on  the  Acropolis, 

71 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

you  find  that  the  marble  holds  many  hues,  among 
others  pale  yellow,  cocoa  color,  honey  color,  and  old 
gold.  I  have  seen  the  columns  at  noonday,  when 
they  were  bathed  by  the  rays  of  the  sun,  glow  with 
something  of  the  luster  of  amber,  and  look  almost 
transparent.  I  have  seen  them,  when  evening  was 
falling,  look  almost  black. 

The  temple,  which  is  approached  through  the 
colossal  marble  Propylsea,  or  state  entrance,  with 
Doric  colonnades  and  steps  of  marble  and  black  and 
deep-blue  Eleusinian  stone,  is  placed  on  the  very 
summit  of  the  Acropolis,  at  the  top  of  a  slope,  now 
covered  with  fragments  of  ruin,  scattered  blocks  of 
stone  and  marble,  sections  of  columns,  slabs  which 
once  formed  parts  of  altars,  and  broken  bits  of 
painted  ceiling,  but  which  w^as  once  a  place  of 
shrines  and  of  splendid  statues,  among  them  the 
great  statue  of  Athena  Promachos,  in  armor,  and 
holding  the  lance  whose  glittering  point  was  visible 
from  the  sea.  The  columns  are  all  fluted,  and  all 
taper  gradually  as  they  rise  to  the  architrave.  And 
the  flutes  narrow  as  they  draw  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  capitals  of  the  columns.  The  architrave  was 
once  hung  with  wreaths  and  decorated  with  shields. 
The  famous  frieze  of  the  cella,  which  represented  in 
marble  a  great  procession,  and  which  ran  round  the 
external  wall  of  the  sanctuary,  is  now  in  pieces, 
some  of  which  are  in  the  British  Museum,  and  some 

72 


IN   AND    NEAR   ATHENS 

in  Athens.    A  portion  of  this  frieze  may  still  be  seen 
on  the  west  front  of  the  temple.    The  cella  had  a  ceil- 
ing of  painted  wood.    On  one  of  its  inner  walls  I  saw 
traces  of  red  Byzantine  figures,  one  apparently  a 
figure  of  the  Virgin.     These  date  from  the  period 
when  the  Parthenon  was  used  as  a  Christian  church, 
and  was  dedicated  to  Mary  the  mother  of  God,  be- 
fore it  became  a  mosque,  and,  later,  a  Turkish  pow- 
der-magazine.    The  wdiite  marble  floor,  which  is 
composed  of  great  blocks  perfectly  fitted  together, 
and    without    any    joining    substance,     contrasts 
strongly  with  the  warm  hues  of  the  inner  flutes  of 
the  Doric  columns.     Here  and  there  in  the  marble 
walls  may  be  seen  fragments  of  red  and  of  yellow 
brick.    From  within  the  Parthenon,  looking  out  be- 
tween the  columns,  you  can  see  magnificent  views 
of  country  and  sea. 

Two  other  temples  form  part  of  the  Acropolis, 
with  the  Propylsea  and  the  Parthenon,  the  Temple 
of  Athene  Nike  and  the  Erechtheum.  They  are 
absolutely  different  from  the  profoundly  masculine 
Parthenon,  and  almost  resemble  two  beautiful 
female  attendants  upon  it,  accentuating  by  their 
delicate  grace  its  majesty. 

The  Temple  of  Nike  is  very  small.  It  stands  on  a 
jutting  bastion  just  outside  the  Propylsea,  and  has 
been  rebuilt  from  the  original  materials,  which  were 
dug  up  out  of  masses  of  accumulated  rubbish.    It  is 

73 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

Ionic,  has  a  colonnade,  is  made  of  Pentelic  marble, 
and  was  once  adorned  with  a  series  of  winged  vic- 
tories in  bas-relief. 

Ionic  like  the  Temple  of  Nike,  but  much  larger, 
the  Erechtheum  stands  beyond  the  Propylsea,  and 
not  far  from  the   Parthenon,  at   the  edge  of  the 
precipice   beneath  which   lies   the  greater   part   of 
Athens.    A  marvelously  personal  element  attaches 
to  it  and  makes  it  unique,  giving  it  a  charm  which 
sets  it  apart  from  all  other  buildings.     To  find  this 
you  must  go  to  the  southwest,  to  the  beautiful  Porch 
of  the  Caryatids,  which  looks  toward  the  Parthenon. 
There   are   six   of   these   caryatids,   or   maidens, 
standing  upon  a  high  parapet  of  marble  and  sup- 
porting a  marble  roof.    Five  of  them  are  white,  and 
one  is  a  sort  of  yellowish  black  in  color,  as  if  she  had 
once  been  black,  but,  having  been  singled  out  from 
her  fellows,  had  been  kissed  for  so  many  years  by 
the  rays  of  the  sun  that  her  original  hue  had  become 
changed,  brightened  by  his  fires.    Four  of  the  maid- 
ens stand  in  a  line.    Two  stand  behind,  on  each  side 
of  the  portico.    They  wear  flowing  draperies,  their 
hair  flows  down  over  their  shoulders,  and  they  sup- 
port their  burden  of  marble  with  a  sort  of  exquisite 
submissiveness,  like  maidens  choosing  to  perform  a 
grateful  and  an  easy  task  that  brings  with  it  no  loss 
of  self-respect. 

I  once  saw  a  great  English  actress  play  the  part  of 

74 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  ATHENE  NIKE  AT  ATHENS 


IN   AND    NEAR   ATHENS 

a  slave  girl.  By  her  imaginative  genius  she  suc- 
ceeded in  being  more  than  a  slave:  she  became  a 
poem  of  slavery.  Everything  ugly  in  slavery  was 
eliminated  from  her  performance.  Only  the  beauty 
of  devoted  service,  the  willing  service  of  love, — and 
slaves  have  been  devoted  to  their  masters, — was 
shown  in  her  face,  her  gestures,  her  attitudes.  ]\Iuch 
of  what  she  imagined  and  reproduced  is  suggested 
by  these  matchlessly  tender  and  touching  figures ;  so 
soft  that  it  is  almost  incredible  that  they  are  made  of 
rnarble,  so  strong  that  no  burden,  surely,  would  be 
too  great  for  their  simple,  yet  almost  divine,  cour- 
age. They  are  watchers,  these  maidens,  not  alertly, 
but  calmly  watchful  of  something  far  beyond  our 
seeing.  They  are  alive,  but  with  a  restrained  life 
such  as  we  are  not  worthy  to  know,  neither  fully 
human  nor  completely  divine.  They  have  some- 
thing of  our  wistfulness  and  something  also  of  that 
attainment  toward  wdiich  we  strive.  They  are  full 
of  that  strange  and  eternal  beauty  that  is  in  all  the 
greatest  things  of  Greece,  from  wdiich  the  momen- 
tary is  banished,  in  which  the  perpetual  is  enshrined. 
Contemplation  of  them  only  seems  to  make  more 
deep  their  simplicity,  more  patient  their  strength, 
and  more  touching  their  endurance.  Retirement 
from  them  does  not  lessen,  but  almost  increases,  the 
enchantment  of  their  very  quiet,  very  delicate  spell. 
Even  when   their   faces   can   no   longer   be   distin- 

77 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

guished  and  only  their  outlines  can  be  seen,  they  do 
not  lose  one  ray  of  their  soft  and  tender  vitality. 
They  are  among  the  eternal  things  in  art,  lifting  up 
more  than  marble,  setting  free  from  bondage,  if  only 
for  a  moment,  many  that  are  slaves  by  their  sub- 
mission. 

About  two  years  ago  this  temple  v^as  carefully 
cleaned,  and  it  is  very  white,  and  looks  almost  like  a 
lovely  new  building  not  yet  completed.  Here  and 
there  the  white  surface  is  stained  with  the  glorious 
golden  hue  which  beautifies  the  Parthenon,  the  Pro- 
pylsea,  the  Odeum  of  Herodes,  the  Temple  of  The- 
seus, the  Arch  of  Hadrian,  and  the  Olympieion.  The 
interior  of  the  temple  is  full  of  scattered  blocks  of 
marble.  In  the  midst  of  them,  and  as  it  were  faith- 
fully protected  by  them,  I  found  a  tiny  tree  carefully 
and  solemnly  growing,  with  an  air  of  self-respect. 
Above  the  doorway  of  the  north  front  is  some  very 
beautiful  and  delicate  carving.  This  temple  was 
once  adorned  with  a  frieze  of  Eleusinian  stone  and 
with  white  marble  sculpture.  Its  Ionic  columns  are 
finely  carved,  and  look  almost  strangely  slender,  if 
you  come  to  them  immediately  after  you  have  been 
among  the  columns  of  the  Parthenon.  Majesty  and 
charm  are  supremely  expressed  in  these  two  tem- 
ples, the  Parthenon  and  the  Erechtheum,  the  smaller 
of  which  is  on  a  lower  level  than  the  greater.  One 
thinks  again  of  the  happy  slave  who  loves  her  lord. 

78 


IN   AND   NEAR  ATHENS 

The  group  of  magnificent,  gold-colored  Greco- 
Roman  columns  which  is  called  the  Olympieion 
stands  in  splendid  isolation  on  a  bare  terrace  at  the 
edge  of  the  charming  Zappeion  garden.  In  this  gar- 
den, full  of  firs  and  pepper-trees,  acacias,  palms,  con- 
volvulus, and  pink  oleanders,  I  saw  many  Greek 
soldiers,  wearied  out  with  preparations  for  the  Bal- 
kan w^ar  against  Turkey,  which  was  declared  while 
I  was  in  Athens,  sleeping  on  the  wooden  seats,  or 
even  stretched  out  at  full  length  on  the  light,  yellow 
soil.  For  there  is  no  grass  there.  Beyond  the  Olym- 
pieion there  is  a  stone  trough  in  which  I  never  saw 
one  drop  of  water.  This  trough  is  the  river-bed  of 
the  famous  Ilissus! 

The  columns  are  very  splendid,  immense  in  height, 
singularly  beautiful  in  color, — they  are  made  of 
Pentelic  marble, — and  with  Corinthian  capitals, 
nobly  carved.  Those  which  are  grouped  closely  to- 
gether are  raised  on  a  platform  of  stone.  But  there 
are  two  isolated  columns  which  look  even  grander 
and  more  colossal  than  those  which  are  united  by  a 
heavy  architrave.  The  temple  of  which  they  are  the 
remnant  was  erected  in  the  reign  of  Hadrian  to  the 
glory  of  Zeus,  and  was  one  of  the  most  gigantic 
buildings  in  the  world. 

From  the  Zappeion  garden  you  can  see  in  the  dis- 
tance the  snow-white  marble  Stadium  where  the 
modern    Olympic    and    Pan-Hellenic    games    take 

79 


THE   NEAR  EAST 

place.     It  is  gigantic.     When  full,  it  can  hold  over 
fifty  thousand  people.    The  seats,  the  staircases,  the 
pavements  are  all  of  dazzling-v^hite  marble,  and  as 
there  is  of  course  no  roof,  the  effect  of  this  vastness 
of  white,  under  a  bright-blue  sky,  and  bathed  in 
golden  fires,  is  almost  blinding.    All  round  the  Sta- 
dium cypress-trees  have  been  planted,   and  their 
dark-green  heads  rise  above  the  outer  w^alls,  like 
long  lines  of  spear-heads  guarding  a   sacred  in- 
closure.    Two  comfortable  arm-chairs  for  the  king 
and  queen  face  two  stelae  of  marble  and  the  far-off 
entrance.    The  earthen  track  where  the  sports  take 
place  is  divided  from  the  spectators  by  a  marble  bar- 
rier about  five  feet  high,  and  till  you  descend  into 
it,  it  looks  small,  though  it  is  really  very  large. 
The    entrance    is    a    propylaeum.     It    is    a    great 
pity     that     immediately     outside     this     splendid 
building  the  hideous  panorama  should  be  allowed 
to   remain,   cheap,   vulgar,   dusty,   and   despicable. 
I  could  not  help  saying  this  to  a  Greek  acquaint- 
ance.    He   thoroughly  agreed  with   me,   but   told 
me  that  the  Athenians  were  very   fond   of  their 
panorama. 

In  a  straight  line  with  the  beautiful  Arch  of 
Hadrian,  and  not  far  off,  is  the  small  and  terribly 
defaced,  but  very  graceful.  Monument  of  Lysicrates, 
a  circular  chamber  of  marble,  with  small  Corinthian 
columns,  an  architrave,  and  a  frieze.     It  is  sur- 

80 


V5 

12; 
h 


h 


IN   AND   NEAR   ATHENS 

rounded  by  a  railing,  and  stands  rather  forlornly  in 
the  midst  of  modern  houses. 

The  Temple  of  Theseus,  or  more  properly  of  Her- 
cules, on  the  other  side  of  the  town,  is  a  beautifully 
preserved  building,  lovely  in  color,  very  simple,  very 
complete.  It  is  small,  and  is  strictly  Doric  and  very 
massive.  Many  people  have  called  it  tremendously 
impressive,  and  have  even  compared  it  with  the  Par- 
thenon. It  seems  to  me  that  to  do  this  is  to  exag- 
gerate, to  compare  the  very  much  less  with  the  very 
much  greater.  There  really  is  something  severe  in 
great  massiveness  combined  with  small  proportions, 
and  I  find  this  temple,  noble  though  it  is,  severe. 

Athens  contains  several  very  handsome  modern 
buildings,  and  one  that  I  think  really  beautiful,  espe- 
cially on  a  day  of  fierce  sunshine  or  by  moonlight. 
This  is  the  Academy,  which  stands  in  the  broad  and 
airy  University  Street,  at  whose  mouth  are  the  two 
cafes  which  Athenians  call  "the  Dardanelles."  It  is 
in  a  line  with  the  university  and  the  national  library, 
is  made  of  pure  white  marble  from  Pentelicus,  and  is 
very  delicately  and  discreetly  adorned  with  a  little 
bright  gold,  the  brilliance  of  which  seems  to  add  to 
the  virginal  luster  of  the  marble.  The  central  sec- 
tion is  flanked  by  two  tall  and  slender  detached  col- 
umns crowned  with  statues.  Ionic  colonnades 
relieve  the  classical  simplicity  of  the  fagade,  with 
some  marble  and  terra-cotta  groups  of  statuary. 

83 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

The  general  effect  is  very  calm,  pure,  and  dignified, 
and  very  satisfying.  The  Athenians  are  proud,  and 
with  reason,  of  this  beautiful  building,  which  they 
owe  to  the  generosity  of  one  of  their  countrymen. 

Modern  Athens,  despite  its  dust,  is  a  delightful 
city  to  dwell  in.  Nobody  in  it  looks  rich, — that 
dreadful  look! — and  scarcely  anybody  looks  poor. 
The  king  and  the  princes  stroll  casually  about  the 
streets,  or  may  be  met  on  the  Acropolis  or  walking 
by  the  sea  at  Phalerum.  I  was  allowed  to  wander 
all  over  the  palace  gardens,  which  are  full  of  palms 
and  great  trees,  and  which  resemble  a  laid-out  wood. 
A  Rumanian  friend  of  mine  told  me  that  one  day 
when  he  was  in  the  garden,  on  turning  a  corner,  he 
came  upon  the  king  and  queen,  with  the  crown- 
princess,  who  had  just  come  down  from  the  terrace 
in  front  of  the  royal  apartments.  All  the  center  of 
the  palace  was  burned  out  more  than  a  year  ago,  and 
is  now  being  slowdy  rebuilt.  Greece  is  the  home  of 
genuine  democrats,  but  democracy  is  delightful  in 
Greece.  Nobody  thinks  about  rank,  and  everybody 
behaves  like  a  gentleman.  The  note  of  Athens  is  a 
perfectly  decorous  liveliness,  which  is  never  marred 
by  vulgarity.  The  stranger  is  welcomed  and  treated 
with  the  greatest  possible  courtesy,  and  he  is  never 
bothered  by  objectionable  people  such  as  haunt 
many  of  the  cities  of  Italy,  and  of  other  lands  where 
travelers  are  numerous.    Athens  indeed  is  one  of  the 

84 


IN   AND   NEAR   ATHENS 

most  simpatica  of  cities,  wonderfully  cheerful,  sim- 
ply gay,  of  a  perfect  behavior,  yet  unceremonious. 

I  have  said  that  the  Greeks  are  democrats.  Never- 
theless, like  certain  other  democrats  of  whom  one 
has  heard,  there  are  Greeks  who  love  to  think  that 
they  are  not  quite  as  all  other  Greeks.  America,  I 
am  informed,  has  her  ''four  hundred."  Greece  has 
her  ''fifty-two."  In  New  York  the  "four  hundred" 
consider  themselves  the  advance-guard  of  fashion, 
if  not  of  civilization.  In  Athens  the  "fifty-two" 
rejoice  in  a  similar  conviction.  They  do  daring 
things  sometimes.  There  is  a  card-game  beloved  of 
the  Greeks  called  "Mouse."  The  fifty-two  have  in- 
troduced bridge  and  despise  "Mouse."  In  Athens 
they  frequent  one  another's  houses.  In  the  summer 
they  "remove"  to  Kephisia  in  the  pine-woods,  where 
there  are  many  pleasant,  and  some  very  fantastic, 
villas,  and  where  picnics,  tennis,  and  card-parties, 
theatrical  performances  and  dances,  fleet  the  hours, 
which  are  always  golden,  away.  They  are  some- 
times criticized  by  the  "outsiders,"  for  even  gods  are 
subject  to  criticism.  People  say  now  and  then, 
"What  will  the  fifty-two  do  next?"  or,  "Really  there 
is  no  end  to  the  folly  of  the  fifty-two !"  But  have  not 
similar  remarks  been  heard  even  at  Newport  or  upon 
Fifth  Avenue  pavements  ?  Nevertheless,  despite  the 
fifty-two,  you  have  only  to  look  at  the  thin  and 
decrepit  palings  of  King  George's  garden  to  realize 

8.5 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

that  at  last  you  have  found  the  true  democracy,  and 
a  democracy  sensible  enough  to  understand  the  ad- 
vantage of  possessing  a  royal  family.  Every  society 
needs  a  leader,  and  royalty  leads  far  more  effectively 
than  any  one  else,  hov^ever  self-assured,  hov^ever 
glittering.    The  Greeks  are  not  without  wisdom. 

Their  manners  are  charming  and  excellent.  I  had 
an  unusual  opportunity  of  putting  them  to  the  test. 
I  was  in  Athens  just  before  and  just  after  the  dec- 
laration of  war  against  Turkey,  when  spies  were 
everywhere,  when  a  Turkish  spy  was  discovered  in 
Athens  disguised  as  a  Greek  priest,  and  a  woman 
was  caught  near  Lycabettus  in  the  act  of  poisoning 
the  water-supply  of  the  city.  One  morning  early, 
when  I  was  on  the  sea  near  Salamis  in  a  small  boat 
with  a  Greek  fisherman,  I  was  arrested  on  suspicion 
of  being  a  spy,  and  was  brought  before  the  admiral 
in  supreme  command  of  the  fleet.  My  passport  was 
in  Athens  at  my  hotel,  the  admiral  evidently  disbe- 
lieved my  explanations,  and  I  was  handed  over  to 
the  police  at  the  Piraeus,  accompanied  by  a  report 
from  the  admiral  in  which,  as  was  afterward  made 
known  to  me,  he  stated  that  I  was  "a  very  suspicious 
character."  And  now  to  the  test  of  Hellenic  good 
manners. 

Eventually  a  guard  of  police  carrying  rifles  was 
sent  to  convey  me  from  the  Piraeus  to  Athens,  and  in 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon  I  was  obliged  to  walk  as 

86 


THE   ACADEMY,   MOUNT    LYCABETTUS    IN 
THE    BACKGROUND 


From  a  photOKrapli,  copyright,  by  I'liderwocd  &  Indcrw     .1,  N.  \. 


IN  AND   NEAR  ATHENS 

a  prisoner  through  the  streets  of  the  Piraeus,  to  take 
the  tram  to  Phalerum,  to  get  out  there  and  wait  for 
half  an  hour  at  a  railway-station,  and  to  travel  in  the 
train  to  Athens.  In  Athens  I  was  made  to  walk  three 
times,  always  guarded  closely,  through  the  prin- 
cipal streets  and  squares  of  the  city,  and  twice  past 
my  hotel  in  the  Constitution  Square  during  the  most 
busy  hour  of  the  day.  Eventually,  at  night,  I  was 
released.  Now,  the  Hellenes  are  considered  by 
many  people  to  be  very  inquisitive.  During  my  pub- 
lic exposure  as  a  prisoner  I  met  with  no  really  dis- 
agreeable curiosity  from  the  crowd.  Many  people 
discreetly  inquired  of  my  guards  who  I  was  and 
what  I  had  done,  and  naturally  a  great  many  more 
stared  at  me.  But  nobody  followed  me  and  my  at- 
tendants as  we  marched  on  our  way  from  one  police 
station  to  another,  to  the  War  Office,  etc.  There  was 
no  pushing  or  jostling,  such  as  there  would  certainly 
have  been  in  an  English  town  if  a  prisoner  with 
guards  was  exposed  to  the  public  gaze.  Curiosity 
was,  as  a  rule,  almost  carefully  dissembled,  and  in- 
quiries were  made  with  a  charming  discretion.  I 
confess  I  felt  grateful  to  the  Greeks  that  day,  though 
not  to  the  admiral  who  had  me  arrested,  or  to  the 
police  who  put  me  to  so  much  inconvenience.  And 
I  was  grateful  for  one  thing  more,  that  I  was  re- 
leased just  in  time  to  see  King  George's  arrival 
in  Athens  on  the  eve  of  the  war. 

•  89 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

The  Hellenes  are  not  an  enthusiastic  people,  as  a 
rule.  They  are  critical,  intellectual,  sometimes 
rather  cynical.  But  that  night  they  gave  way  to 
emotion.  Great  crowds  were  lined  up  in  Constitu- 
tion Square,  and  were  massed  on  the  brow  of  the 
hill  before  the  palace,  when  at  length  the  police  let 
me  go.  Darkness  had  long  since  fallen,  but  the 
square  was  illuminated  brightly.  All  the  balconies 
were  packed  with  people.  The  terrace  before  the 
Grande  Bretagne  was  black  with  sight-seers.  And 
everywhere  in  the  forefront  were  rows  of  eager, 
vivacious  Greek  children,  many  of  them  the  soldiers 
of  the  future. 

We  had  to  wait  for  a  very  long  time.  But  at  last 
the  king  came  in  an  open  carriage,  driving  with  ''the 
Diadochos,"  as  the  crown-prince  is  always  called  in 
Greece.  Both  were  in  uniform.  There  was  no  cere- 
monial escort,  so  the  people  formed  an  unceremonial 
one.  They  ran  with  the  carriage,  shouting,  waving 
their  hats  and  handkerchiefs,  cheering  till  they  were 
hoarse,  and  crying,  "War!  War!"  The  great  square 
rang  with  the  clapping  of  thousands  of  hands. 
"Never  before,"  said  a  Greek  to  me,  "has  the  king 
had  such  a  reception."  When  the  carriagjes  contain^ 
ing  the  rest  of  the  royal  family  and  the  ministers  had 
gone  by,  we  ran  in  our  thousands  to  the  palace. 
Above  the  great  entrance  porch  there  is  a  balcony, 
and  after  a  short  time  slim  King  George  stepped  out, 

qo 


FHE  ACROPOTJS   AT  ATHENS,  EARLY   MORNING 


IN   AND   NEAR  ATHENS 

rather  cautiously,  I  thought,  upon  it,  followed  by  all 
the  princes  and  princesses.  It  was  very  dark,  but  a 
footman  accompanied  his  Majesty,  holding  an  elec- 
tric light,  and  we  had  our  speech. 

The  king  read  the  first  part  of  it  in  a  loud,  unemo- 
tional voice,  bending  sometimes  to  the  light.  But  at 
the  close  he  spoke  a  few  words  extempore,  com- 
mending the  Hellenic  cause,  if  war  should  come,  to 
the  mercy  of  God.  And  then,  again  with  precaution, 
he  retired  into  the  palace  amid  a  storm  of  cheers. 

I  was  afterward  told  that,  with  the  whole  of  the 
royal  family,  his  Majesty  had  been  standing  upon 
some  loose  planks  which  spanned  an  abyss.  The 
royal  palace,  owing  to  the  disastrous  fire,  is  not  yei 
what  it  seems.  Fortunately,  the  Greek  army  has 
proved  more  solid,  and  the  God  of  battles,  so  sol- 
emnly invoked  by  their  king,  has  been  favorable  to 
the  arms  of  the  Greeks.  No  one,  I  think,  who  was  in 
Greece  during  that  time  of  acute  tension,  who  saw 
the  feverish  preparations,  the  devotion  of  the  toiling 
soldiers,  the  ardor  of  the  volunteers;  no  one  who  wit- 
nessed, as  I  did,  the  return  to  Athens  of  the  ''Amer- 
ican Greeks,"  who  gave  up  everything  and  crossed 
the  ocean  to  fight  for  their  little,  splendid  country, 
could  wish  it  otherwise. 

The  descendants  of  those  who  made  the  Par- 
thenon have  shown  something  of  that  Doric  soul 
which  is  surely  the  soul  of  Greece. 

93 


THE  ENVIRONS  OF  ATHENS 


*^ 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  POSEIDON  AND  ATHENE  AT  SUNIUM 


Chapter  III 
THE  ENVIRONS  OF  ATHENS 

UPON  the  southern  slope  of  the  Acropolis, 
beneath  the  limestone  precipices  and  the 
great  golden-brown  walls  above  which  the 
Parthenon  shows  its  white  summit,  are  many  ruins; 
among  them  the  Theater  of  Dionysus  and  the 
Odeum  of  Herodes  Atticus,  the  rich  Marathonian 
who  spent  much  of  his  money  in  the  beautification 
of  Athens,  and  who  taught  rhetoric  to  two  men  who 
eventually  became  Roman  emperors.  The  Theater 
of  Dionysus,  in  which  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  and 
Euripides  produced  their  dramas,  is  of  stone  and 
silver-white  marble.  Many  of  the  seats  are  arm- 
chairs, and  are  so  comfortable  that  it  is  no  uncom- 
mon thing  to  see  weary  travelers,  who  have  just 
come  down  from  the  Acropolis,  resting  in  them  with 
almost  unsuitable  airs  of  unbridled  satisfaction. 

It  is  evident  to  any  one  who  examines  this  great 
theater  carefully  that  the  Greeks  considered  it  im- 
portant for  the  body  to  be  at  ease  while  the  mind  was 
at  work;  for  not  only  are  the  seats  perfectly  adapted 

99 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

to  their  purpose,  but  ample  room  is  given  for  the  feet 
of  the  spectators,  the  distance  between  each  tier  and 
the  tier  above  it  being  v^ide  enough  to  do  av^ay  with 
all  fear  of  crowding  and  inconvenience.  The  marble 
arm-chairs  were  assigned  to  priests,  whose  names 
are  carved  upon  them.  In  the  theater  I  saw  one  high 
arm-chair,  like  a  throne,  with  lion's  feet.  This  is 
Roman,  and  was  the  seat  of  a  Roman  general.  The 
fronts  of  the  seats  are  pierced  with  small  holes, 
which  allow  the  rain-water  to  escape.  Below  the 
stage  there  are  some  sculptured  figures,  most  of 
them  headless.  One  which  is  not  is  a  very  striking 
and  powerful,  though  almost  sinister,  old  man,  in  a 
crouching  posture.  His  rather  round  forehead  re- 
sembles the  very  characteristic  foreheads  of  the 
Montenegrins. 

Herodes  Atticus  restored  this  theater.  Before  his 
time  it  had  been  embellished  by  Lycurgus  of  Athens, 
the  orator,  and  disciple  of  Plato.  It  is  not  one  of  the 
gloriously  placed  theaters  of  the  Greeks,  but  from 
the  upper  tiers  of  seats  there  is  a  view  across  part  of 
the  Attic  plain  to  the  isolated  grove  of  cypresses 
where  the  famous  Schliemann  is  buried,  and  beyond 
to  gray  Hymettus. 

Standing  near  by  is  another  theater,  Roman- 
Greek,  not  Greek,  the  Odeum  of  Herodes  Atticus, 
said  to  have  been  built  by  him  in  memory  of  his  wife. 
This  is  not  certain,  and  there  are  some  authorities 

loo 


THE    ENVIRONS   OF   ATHENS 

who  think  that,  like  the  beautiful  arch  near  the 
Olympieion,  this  peculiar,  very  picturesque  struc- 
ture was  raised  by  the  Emperor  Hadrian,  who  was 
much  fonder  of  Athens  than  of  Rome. 

The  contrast  between  the  exterior,  the  immensely 
massive,  three-storied  fagade  with  Roman  arches, 
and  the  interior,  or,  rather,  what  was  once  the  inte- 
rior, of  this  formerly  roofed-in  building,  is  very 
strange.  They  do  not  seem  to  belong  to  each  other, 
to  have  any  artistic  connection  the  one  with  the 
other. 

The  outer  walls  are  barbarically  huge  and  heavy, 
and  superb  in  color.  They  gleam  with  a  fierce  red- 
gold,  and  are  conspicuous  from  afar.  The  almost 
monstrous,  but  impressive,  solidity  of  Rome,  heavy 
and  bold,  indeed  almost  crudely  imperious,  is  shown 
forth  by  them — a  solidity  absolutely  different  from 
the  Greek  massiveness,  which  you  can  study  in  the 
Doric  temples,  and  far  less  beautiful.  When  you 
pass  beyond  this  towering  faqade,  which  might  well 
be  a  section  of  the  Colosseum  transferred  from 
gladiatorial  Rome  to  intellectual  Athens,  you  find 
yourself  in  a  theater  which  looks  oddly,  indeed,  al- 
most meanly,  small  and  pale  and  graceful.  With  a 
sort  of  fragile  timidity  it  seems  to  be  cowering  be- 
hind the  flamboyant  walls.  When  all  its  blanched 
marble  seats  were  crowded  with  spectators  it  con- 
tained five  thousand  persons.    As  you  approach  the 

lOI 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

outer  walls,  you  expect  to  find  a  building  that  might 
accommodate  perhaps  twenty-five  thousand.  There 
is  something  bizarre  in  the  two  colors,  fierce  and 
pale,  in  the  two  sizes,  huge  and  comparatively  small, 
that  are  united  in  the  odeum.  Though  very  remark- 
able, it  seems  to  me  to  be  one  of  the  most  inharmo- 
nious ruins  in  Greece. 

The  modern  Athenians  are  not  very  fond  of  hard 
exercise,  and  except  in  the  height  of  summer,  when 
many  of  them  go  to  Kephisia  and  Phalerum,  and 
others  to  the  islands,  or  to  the  baths  near  Corinth  for 
a  ''cure,"  they  seem  well  content  to  remain  within 
their  city.  They  are  governed,  it  seems,  by  fashion, 
like  those  who  dwell  in  less-favored  lands.  When  I 
was  in  Athens  the  weather  was  usually  magnificent 
and  often  very  hot.  Yet  Phalerum,  perhaps  half  an 
hour  by  train  from  Constitution  Square,  was  de- 
serted. In  the  vast  hotel  there  I  found  only  two  or 
three  children,  in  the  baths  half  a  dozen  swimmers. 
The  pleasure-boats  lay  idle  by  the  pier.  I  asked  the 
reason  of  this — why  at  evening  dusty  Athens  was 
crammed  with  strollers,  and  the  pavements  were 
black  with  people  taking  coffee  and  ices,  while  de- 
lightful Phalerum,  with  its  cooler  air  and  its  limpid 
waters,  held  no  one  but  an  English  traveler? 

"The  season  is  over,"  was  the  only  reply  I  re- 
ceived, delivered  with  a  grave  air  of  finality.  I  tried 
to  argue  the  matter,  and  suggested  that  anxiety 

I02 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  ATHENE,  ISLAND  OF  ^GINA 


V 


THE    ENVIRONS   OF   ATHENS 

about  the  war  had  something  to  do  with  it.  But  I 
was  informed  that  the  "season"  closed  on  a  certain 
day,  and  that  after  that  day  the  Athenians  gave  up 
going  to  Phalerum. 

The  season  for  many  things  seemed  "over"  wdien 
I  was  in  Athens.  Round  about  the  city,  and  within 
easy  reach  of  it,  there  is  fascinating  country — coun- 
try that  seems  to  call  you  with  a  smiling  decision  to 
enjoy  all  Arcadian  delights;  country,  too,  that  has 
great  associations  connected  with  it.  From  Athens 
you  can  go  to  picnic  at  Marathon  or  at  Salamis,  or 
you  can  carry  a  tea-basket  to  the  pine-woods  which 
slope  down  to  the  Convent  of  Daphni,  and  come' 
back  to  it  after  paying  a  visit  to  Eleusis.  Or,  if  you 
are  not  afraid  of  a  "long  day,"  you  can  motor  out 
and  lunch  in  the  lonely  home  of  the  sea-god  under 
the  columns  at  Sunium.  If  you  wish  to  go  where  a 
king  goes,  you  can  spend  the  day  in  the  thick  woods 
at  Tato'i.  If  you  are  full  of  social  ambition,  and  aim 
at  "climbing,"  a  train  in  not  many  minutes  will  set 
you  down  at  Kephisia,  the  summer  home  of  "the 
fifty-two"  on  the  slope  of  a  spur  of  Mount  Pen- 
telicus. 

Thither  I  went  one  bright  day.  But,  as  at  Pha- 
lerum, I  found  a  deserted  paradise.  The  charming 
gardens  and  arbors  were  empty.  The  villas,  Rus- 
sian, Egyptian,  Swiss,  English,  French,  and  even 
now  and  then  Greek  in  style,  were  shuttered  and 


THE    NEAR   EAST 

closed.  All  in  vain  the  waterfalls  sang,  all  in  vain 
the  silver  poplars  and  the  yellow-green  pines  gave 
their  shade.  No  one  was  there.  I  went  at  length  to 
a  restaurant  to  get  something  to  eat.  Its  door  was 
unlocked,  and  I  entered  a  large,  deserted  room,  with 
many  tables,  a  piano,  and  a  terrace.  No  one  came. 
I  called,  knocked,  stamped,  and  at  length  evoked  a 
thin  elderly  lady  in  a  gray  shawl,  who  seemed 
alarmed  at  the  sight  of  me,  and  in  a  frail  voice 
begged  to  know  what  I  wanted.  When  I  told  her, 
she  said  there  was  nothing  to  eat  except  what  they 
were  going  to  have  themselves.  The  season  was 
over.  Eventually  she  brought  me  mastika  and  part 
of  her  own  dinner  to  the  terrace,  which  overlooked 
a  luxuriant  and  deserted  garden.  And  there  I  spent 
two  happy,  golden  hours.  I  had  sought  the  heart  of 
fashion,  and  found  the  exquisite  peace  that  comes  to 
places  when  fashion  has  left  them.  Henceforth  I 
shall  always  associate  beautiful  Kephisia  with  si- 
lence, flowers,  and  one  thin  old  woman  in  a  gray 
shawl. 

Greece,  though  sparsely  inhabited,  is  in  the  main 
a  very  cheerful-looking  country.  The  loneliness  of 
much  of  it  is  not  depressing,  the  bareness  of  much  of 
it  is  not  sad.  I  began  to  understand  this  on  the  day 
when  I  went  to  the  plain  of  Marathon,  which,  for- 
tunately, lies  away  from  railroads.  One  must  go 
there  by  carriage  or  motor  or  on  horseback.     The 

io6 


rron,  a  photograph,  copyright,  l.y  L  .M.ru d  .V  L„derwood.  N.  Y. 


THE  THEATER   OF  DIONYSUS,   ATHENS 


THE   ENVIRONS   OF   ATHENS 

road  is  bad  both  for  beasts  and  machinery,  but  it 
passes  through  country  which  is  typical  of  Greece, 
and  through  which  it  would  be  foolish  to  go  in  haste. 
Go  quietly  to  Marathon,  spend  two  hours  there,  or 
more,  and  when  you  return  in  the  evening  to  Athens 
you  will  have  tasted  a  new  joy.  You  will  have  lived 
for  a  little  while  in  an  exquisite  pastoral — a  pastoral 
through  which,  it  is  true,  no  pipes  of  Pan  have  fluted 
to  you, — I  heard  little  music  in  Greece, — but  which 
has  been  full  of  that  lightness,  brightness,  sim- 
plicity, and  delicacy  peculiar  to  Greece.  The  soil  of 
the  land  is  light,  and  I  believe,  though  Hellenes  have 
told  me  that  in  this  belief  I  am  wrong,  that  the  heart 
of  the  people  is  light.  Certainly  the  heart  of  one 
traveler  was  as  he  made  his  way  to  Marathon  along 
a  white  road  thickly  powdered  with  dust. 

Has  not  each  land  its  representative  tree?  Amer- 
ica has  it  maple.  England  its  oak,  France  its  poplar, 
Italy  its  olive,  Turkey  its  cypress,  Egypt  its  palm, 
and  so  on.  The  representative  tree  of  Greece  is  the 
pine.  I  do  not  forget  the  wild  olive,  from  which  in 
past  days  the  crowns  were  made,  nor  the  fact  that 
the  guide-books  say  that  in  a  Greek  landscape  the 
masses  of  color  are  usually  formed  by  the  silver- 
green  olive-trees.  It  seemed  to  me,  and  it  seems  to 
me  still  in  remembrance,  that  the  lovely  little  pine  is 
the  most  precious  ornament  of  the  Grecian  scene. 

Marathon  that  day  was  a  pastoral  of  yellow  and 

109 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

blue,  of  pines  and  sea.  On  the  way  I  passed  through 
great  oHve-groves,  in  one  of  which  long  since  some 
countrymen  of  mine  were  taken  by  brigands  and 
carried  away  to  be  done  to  death.  And  there  were 
mighty  fig-trees,  and  mulberry-trees,  and  acres  and 
acres  of  vines,  with  here  and  there  an  almost  black 
cypress  among  them.  But  the  pines,  more  yellow 
than  green,  and  the  bright  blue  sea  made  the  picture 
that  lives  in  my  memory. 

Not  very  long  after  we  were  clear  of  the  town  we 
passed  not  far  from  the  village  of  "Louis,"  w^ho  won 
the  first  Marathon  race  that  was  run  under  King 
George's  scepter,  Marousi,  where  the  delicious  water 
is  found  that  Athens  loves  to  drink.  And  then  away 
we  went  through  the  groves  and  the  little  villages, 
where  dusty  soldiers  were  buying  up  mules  for  the 
coming  war;  and  Greek  priests  were  reading  news- 
papers; and  olive-skinned  children,  with  bright,  yet 
not  ungentle,  eyes,  were  coming  from  school;  and 
outside  of  ramshackle  cafes,  a  huddle  of  wood,  a 
vine,  a  couple  of  tables,  and  a  few  bottles,  old  gentle- 
men, some  of  them  in  native  dress,  with  the  white 
fustanella,  a  sort  of  short  skirt  not  reaching  to  the 
knees,  and  shoes  with  turned-up  toes  ornamented 
with  big  black  tassels,  were  busily  talking  politics. 
Carts,  not  covered  with  absurd  but  lively  pictures, 
as  they  are  in  Sicily,  lumbered  by  in  the  dust.  Peas- 
ants, sitting  sidewise  with  dangling  feet,  met  us  on 

I  lO 


THE   ENVIROiNS   OF   ATHENS 

trotting  donkeys.  Now  and  then  a  white  dog  dashed 
out,  or  a  flock  of  thin  turkeys  gobbled  and  stretched 
their  necks  nervously  as  they  gave  us  passage.  Wo- 
men, with  rather  dingy  handkerchiefs  tied  over  their 
heads,  were  working  in  the  vineyards  or  washing 
clothes  here  and  there  beside  thin  runlets  of  water. 
Two  German  beggars,  with  matted  hair  uncovered 
to  the  sun,  red  faces,  and  fingers  with  nails  like  the 
claws  of  birds,  tramped  by,  going  to  Athens.  And 
farther  on  we  met  a  few  Turkish  Gipsies,  swarthy 
and  full  of  a  lively  malice,  whose  tents  were  visible 
on  a  hillside  at  a  little  distance,  in  the  midst  of  a 
grove  of  pines.  All  the  country  smiled  at  us  in  the 
sunshine.  One  jovial  man  in  a  fustanella  leaned 
down  from  a  cart  as  we  passed,  and  shouted  in 
Greek:  "Enjoy  yourselves!  Enjoy  yourselves!"  And 
the  gentle  hills,  the  olive-  and  pine-groves,  the 
stretching  vineyards,  seemed  to  echo  his  cry. 

What  is  the  magic  of  pastoral  Greece?  What  is  it 
that  gives  to  you  a  sensation  of  being  gently  re- 
leased from  the  cares  of  life  and  the  boredom  of 
modern  civilization,  with  its  often  unmeaning  com- 
plications, its  unnecessary  luxuries,  its  noisy  self- 
satisfactions?  This  is  not  the  tremendous,  the 
spectacular  release  of  the  desert,  an  almost  savage 
tearing  away  of  bonds.  Nothing  in  the  Greece  I  saw 
is  savage ;  scarcely  anything  is  spectacular.  But,  oh, 
the  bright  simplicity  of  the  life  and  the  country 

III 


THE   NEAR    EAST 

along  the  way  to  Marathon!  It  was  like  an  early 
world.  One  looked,  and  longed  to  live  in  those 
happy  woods  like  the  Turkish  Gipsies.  Could  life 
offer  anything  better?  The  pines  are  small,  exqui- 
sitely shaped,  with  foliage  that  looks  almost  as  if  it 
had  been  deftly  arranged  by  a  consummate  artist. 
They  curl  over  the  slopes  with  a  lightness  almost  of 
foam  cresting  a  wave.  Their  color  is  quite  lovely. 
The  ancient  Egyptians  had  a  love  color:  well,  the 
little  pine-trees  of  Greece  are  the  color  of  happiness. 
You  smile  involuntarily  when  you  see  them.  And 
when,  descending  among  them,  you  are  greeted  by 
the  shining  of  the  brilliant-blue  sea,  which  stretches 
along  the  edge  of  the  plain  of  Marathon,  you  know 
radiance  purged  of  fierceness. 

The  road  winds  down  among  the  pines  till,  at 
right  angles  to  it,  appears  another  road,  or  rough 
track  just  wide  enough  for  a  carriage.  This  leads  to 
a  large  mound  which  bars  the  way.  Upon  this 
mound  a  habitation  was  perched.  It  was  raised  high 
above  the  ground  upon  a  sort  of  tripod  of  poles.  It 
had  yellow  walls  of  wheat,  and  a  roof  and  floor  of 
brushwood  and  maize.  A  ladder  gave  access  to  it, 
and  from  it  there  was  a  wide  outlook  over  the  whole 
crescent-shaped  plain  of  Marathon.  This  dwelling 
belonged  to  a  guardian  of  the  vineyards,  and  the 
mound  is  the  tomb  of  those  who  died  In  the  great 
battle. 

112 


THE    PLAIN  OF  MARATHON 


THE   ENVIRONS   OF   ATHENS 

I  sat  for  a  long  time  on  this  strange  tomb,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  rustic  watch-house,  and  looked  out 
over  the  plain.  It  is  quite  flat,  and  is  now  cultivated, 
though  there  are  some  bare  tracts  of  unfruitful 
ground.  In  all  directions  I  saw  straggling  vines. 
Not  far  away  was  one  low,  red-tiled  house  belonging 
to  a  peasant,  whose  three  small,  dirty,  and  un- 
healthy-looking children  presently  approached,  and 
gazed  at  me  from  below.  In  the  distance  a  man  on  a 
white  horse  rode  slowly  toward  the  pine-woods,  and 
to  my  left  I  saw  a  group  of  women  bending  mysteri- 
ously to  accomplish  some  task  unknown  to  me.  No 
other  figures  could  I  see  between  me  and  the  bright- 
blue  waters  that  once  bore  up  the  fleet  of  Persia. 
Behind  me  were  stony  and  not  very  high  hills,  end- 
ing in  the  slopes  down  which  Miltiades  made  his  sol- 
diers advance  ''at  a  running  pace."  One  hundred 
and  ninety-two  brave  men  gone  to  dust  beneath  me; 
instead  of  the  commemorative  lion,  the  little  watch- 
house  of  brushwood  and  wheat  and  maize;  silence 
the  only  epitaph.  The  mound,  of  hard,  sun-baked 
earth,  was  yellow  and  bare.  On  one  side  a  few  rusty- 
looking  thorn-bushes  decorated  it  harshly.  But 
about  it  grew  aloes,  and  the  wild  oleander,  with  its 
bright-pink  flowers,  and  near  by  were  many  great 
fig-trees.  A  river  intersects  the  plain,  and  its  course 
is  marked  by  sedges  and  tall  reeds.  Where  the  land 
is  bare,  it  takes  a  tawny-yellow  hue.    Some  cluster- 

115 


THE    NEAR   EAST 

ini;-  low  houses  far  off  under  the  hills  form  the  Al- 
hanian  village  of  Marathon.  Just  twenty-two  miles 
\vo\u  Athens,  this  place  of  an  ancient  glory,  this 
tcMul)  oi  men  who,  I  suppose,  will  not  be  forgotten  so 
long  as  the  Hellenic  kingdom  lasts,  seems  very  far 
awav,  hidden  from  the  world  between  woods  and 
waters,  solitary,  but  not  sad.  Beyond  the  plain  and 
the  sea  are  ranges  of  mountains  and  the  island  of 
Euboea. 

A  figure  slowly  approaches.  It  is  the  guardian  of 
the  vineyards,  coming  back  to  his  watch-house 
above  the  grave  of  his  countrymen,  smiling,  with  a 
cigarette  between  his  white  teeth.  As  I  go,  he  calls 
out  ''Addio!"  Then  he  mounts  his  ladder  carefully 
and  withdraws  to  his  easy  work.  How  strange  to  be 
a  watcher  of  vineyards  upon  the  tumulus  of  Mar- 
athon! 

If  you  care  at  all  for  life  in  the  open,  if  you  have 
the  love  of  camping  in  your  blood,  Greece  will  call  to 
you  at  every  moment  to  throw  off  the  dullness  of 
houses,  to  come  and  stay  under  blue  heaven  and  be 
happy.  Yet  I  suppose  the  season  for  all  such  joys 
was  over  when  I  was  in  Greece,  for  I  never  met  any 
citizens  of  Athens  taking  their  pleasure  in  the  sur- 
rounding country.  In  Turkey  and  Asia  Minor,  near 
any  large  town,  when  the  weather  is  hot  and  fine, 
one  may  see  cheerful  parties  of  friends  making 
merry  in  the  open  air,  under  trees  and  in  arbors;  or 

ii6 


THE   ENVIRONS   OF   ATHENS 

men  dreaming  idly  in  nooks  that  might  have  made 
old  Omar's  delight,  shaded,  and  sung  to  by  a  stream. 
In  Greece  it  is  not  so.  Once  you  are  out  in  the  coun- 
try, you  come  upon  no  one  but  peasants,  shepherds, 
goatherds,  Gipsies,  turkey-drivers,  and,  speaking 
generally,  "sons  of  the  soil." 

In  the  very  height  of  summer,  I  am  told,  the 
Athenians  do  condescend  to  go  to  the  pine-woods. 
They  sleep  during  part  of  the  day,  and  stay  out  of 
doors  at  night,  often  driving  into  the  country,  and 
eating  under  the  trees  or  by  the  sea.  But  even  in  the 
heat  of  a  rainless  September,  if  I  may  judge  by  my 
own  experience,  they  prefer  Constitution  Square 
and  ''the  Dardanelles"  to  any  more  pastoral  pleas- 
ures. 

I  did  not  imitate  them,  but  followed  the  Via  Sacra 
one  morning,  past  the  oldest  olive-tree  in  Greece,  a 
small  and  corrugated  veteran  said  to  have  been 
planted  in  the  time  of  Pericles,  to  the  Convent  of 
Daphni,  now  fallen  into  a  sort  of  poetic  decay. 

Once  more  I  was  among  pine-trees.  They 
thronged  the  almost  park-like  slopes  under  ^ga- 
leos.  They  crowded  toward  the  little  Byzantine 
church,  which  stands  on  the  left  of  the  road  on  the 
site  of  a  vanished  temple  of  Apollo,  with  remains  of 
its  once  strongly  fortified  walls  about  it.  Lonely, 
but  smiling,  as  though  with  a  radiant  satisfaction  at 
its  own  shining  peace,  is  the  country  in  whose  bosom 

1  17 

in  ' 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

the  church  Hes.  A  few  sheep,  small,  with  shaggy 
coats  of  brown  and  white,  were  grazing  near  it;  a 
doe-  lav  stretched  out  in  the  sun;  and  some  lean, 
long-tailed  horses  were  standing  with  bowed  heads, 
as  if  drowsing.  An  ancient  and  very  deep  well  was 
close  by.  In  the  marble  well-head  the  friction  of 
many  drawn  cords  has  cut  grooves,  some  of  them 
nearly  an  inch  in  depth.  The  court  of  the  convent  is 
roughly  paved  and  is  inclosed  within  rough  walls. 
In  it  are  a  few  trees,  an  acacia  or  two,  a  wild  pepper- 
tree,  and  one  gigantic  cypress.  From  a  branch  near 
the  entrance  a  big  bell  hung  by  a  chain.  But  the 
only  sound  of  bells  came  to  me  from  without  the 
walls,  where  some  hidden  goats  were  moving  to  a 
pasture.  Fragments  of  broken  columns  and  two  or 
three  sarcophagi  lay  on  the  hot  ground  at  my  feet. 
To  my  right,  close  to  the  church,  a  flight  of  very  old 
marble  steps  led  to  a  rustic  loggia  with  wooden  sup- 
ports, full  of  red  geraniums  and  the  flowers  of  a 
plant  like  a  very  small  convolvulus.  From  the  log- 
gia, which  fronted  her  abiding-place,  a  cheerful, 
kindly-faced  woman  came  down  and  let  me  into  the 
church  and  left  me  with  two  companions,  a  black 
kitten  playing  with  a  bee  under  the  gilded  cupola. 

The  church,  like  almost  all  the  Byzantine  churches 
I  saw  in  Greece,  is  very  small,  but  it  is  tremendously 
solid  and  has  a  tall  belfry.  The  exterior,  stained  by 
weather,  is  now  a  sort  of  earthy  yellow;  the  cupola 

ii8 


> 


< 

o 


>■ 


THE   ENVIRONS   OF   ATHENS 

is  covered  with  red  tiles.     The  interior  walls  look 
very  ancient,  and  are  blackened  in  many  places  by 
the  fingers  of  Time.    IMade  more  than  eight  hundred 
years  ago,  the  remains  of  the  Byzantine  mosaics  are 
very  curious  and  interesting.     In  the  cupola,  on  a 
gold  ground,  is  a  very  large  head  of  a  Christ  ("Chris- 
tos  Pantokrator"),  which  looks  as  if  it  were  just 
finished.    The  face  is  sinister  and  repellent,  but  ex- 
pressive.    There  are  several  other  mosaics,  of  the 
apostles,  of  episodes  in  the  life  of  the  Virgin,  and  of 
angels.      None   of  them   seemed   to   me   beautiful, 
though  perhaps  not  one  looks  so  wicked  as  the  Chris- 
tos,  which  dominates  the  whole  church.    Until  com- 
paratively recent  times  there  were  monks  attached 
to  this  convent,  but  now  they  are  gone. 

I  passed  through  a  doorway  and  came  into  a  sort 
of  tiny  cloister,  shaded  by  a  huge  and  evidently  very 
ancient  fig-tree  with  enormous  leaves.  Here  I  found 
the  remains  of  an  old  staircase  of  stone.  As  I  re- 
turned to  the  dim  and  massive  little  church,  glim- 
mering with  gold  where  the  sunlight  fell  upon  the 
mosaics,  the  eyes  of  the  Christos  seemed  to  rebuke 
me  from  the  lofty  cupola.  The  good-natured  woman 
locked  the  door  behind  me  with  a  large  key,  handed 
to  me  a  bunch  of  the  flowers  I  had  noticed  grow- 
ing in  the  loggia,  and  bade  me  "Addio!"  And  soon 
the  sound  of  the  goat-bells  died  away  from  my  ears 
as  I  went  on  my  way  back  to  Eleusis. 


1  21 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

There  is  nothing  mysterious  about  this  road 
which  loads  to  the  site  of  the  Temple  of  the  Mys- 
teries. It  winds  down  through  the  pine-woods  and 
rocks  of  the  Pass  of  Daphni  into  the  cheerful  and 
well-cultivated  Thriasian  plain,  whence  across  a 
brilliant-blue  stretch  of  water,  which  looks  like  a 
lake,  but  which  is  the  bay  of  Eleusls,  you  can  see 
lunises  and,  alas!  several  tall  chimneys  pouring  forth 
smoke.  The  group  of  houses  is  Eleusis,  now  an 
Albanian  settlement,  and  the  chimneys  belong  to  a 
factory  where  olive-oil  soap  is  made.  The  road 
passes  between  the  sea  and  a  little  salt  lake,  which 
latter  seems  to  be  prevented  from  submerging  it 
only  by  a  raised  coping  of  stone.  The  color  of  this 
lake  is  a  brilliant  purple.  In  the  distance  is  the 
mountainous  and  rocky  island  of  Salamis. 

When  I  reached  the  village,  I  found  it  a  cheery  lit- 
tle place  of  small  white,  yellow,  and  rose-colored 
houses,  among  which  a  few  cypress-trees  grow.  Al- 
though one  of  the  most  ancient  places  in  Greece,  it 
now  looks  very  modern.  And  it  is  difficult  to  believe, 
as  one  glances  at  the  chimneys  of  the  soap  factory, 
and  at  two  or  three  black  and  dingy  steamers  lying 
just  off  the  works  to  take  in  cargo,  that  here  Demeter 
was  worshiped  with  mysterious  rites  at  the  great 
festival  of  the  Eleusinia.  Yet,  according  to  the  leg- 
end, it  W2LS  here  that  she  came,  disguised  as  an  old 
hag,  in  search  of  her  lost  Persephone;  here  that  she 

122 


THE   ENVIRONS   OF   ATHENS 

taught  Triptolemus  how  to  sow  the  plain,  and  to 
reap  the  first  harvest  of  yellow  wheat,  as  a  reward 
for  the  hospitable  welcome  given  to  her  by  his  father 
Celeus. 

The  ruins  at  Eleusis  are  disappointing  to  the  ordi- 
nary traveler,  though  interesting  to  the  archaeolo- 
gist. They  have  none  of  the  pathetic  romance  which, 
notwithstanding  the  scoldings  of  many  vulgar  per- 
sons set  forth  in  a  certain  visitors'  book,  broods 
gently  over  poetic  Olympia.  Above  the  village  is  a 
vast  confusion  of  broken  columns,  defaced  capitals, 
bits  of  wall,  bits  of  pavement,  marble  steps,  fallen 
medallions,  vaults,  propylaea,  substructures,  scraps 
of  architraves  carved  with  inscriptions,  and  subter- 
ranean store-rooms.  In  the  pavement  of  the  proces- 
sional way,  by  which  the  chariots  came  up  to  the 
Temple  of  Demeter,  the  chief  glory  and  shrine  of 
Eleusis,  are  the  deep  ruts  made  by  the  chariot- 
wheels.  The  remnants  of  the  hall  of  the  initiated 
bears  witness  to  the  long  desire  of  poor  human 
beings  in  all  ages  to  find  that  peace  which  passeth 
our  understanding.  Of  beauty  there  is  little  or  none. 
Nevertheless,  even  now,  it  is  not  possible  in  the 
midst  of  this  tragic  debacle  to  remain  wholly  un- 
moved. Indeed,  the  very  completeness  of  the  disas- 
ter that  time  and  humanity  have  wrought  here 
creates  emotion,  when  one  remembers  that  here 
great  men  came,  such  men  as  Cicero,  Sophocles,  and 

123 


THE    NEAR   EAST 

Plato:  that  here  they  worshiped  and  adored  under 
cover  of  the  darkness  of  night;  that  here,  seeking, 
they  found,  as  has  been  recorded,  peace  and  hope  to 
sustain  them  when,  the  august  festival  over,  they 
took  their  way  back  into  the  ordinary  world  along 
the  shores  of  sea  and  lake.  Eleusis  is  no  longer 
beautiful.  It  is  a  home  of  devastation.  It  is  no 
longer  mysterious.  A  successful  man  is  making  a 
fortune  out  of  soap  there.  But  it  is  a  place  one  can- 
not easily  forget.  And  just  above  the  ruins  there  is  a 
small  museum  which  contains  several  very  interest- 
ing things,  and  one  thing  that  is  superb. 

This  last  is  the  enormous  and  noble  upper  part  of 
the  statue  of  a  woman  wearing  ear-rings.  I  do  not 
know  its  history,  though  some  one  assured  me  that 
it  was  a  caryatid.  It  was  dug  up  among  the  ruins, 
and  the  color  of  it  is  akin  to  that  of  the  earth.  The 
roughly  undulating  hair  is  parted  in  the  middle  of  a 
majestic,  goddess-like  head.  The  features  are  pure 
and  grand;  but  the  two  things  that  most  struck  me, 
as  I  looked  at  this  great  work  of  art,  were  the  expres- 
sion of  the  face,  and  the  deep  bosom,  as  of  the  earth- 
mother  and  all  her  fruitfulness.  In  few  Greek 
statues  have  I  seen  such  majesty  and  power,  com- 
bined with  such  intensity,  as  this  nameless  woman 
shows  forth.  There  is  indeed  almost  a  suggestion  of 
underlying  fierceness  in  the  face,  but  it  is  the  fierce- 
ness that  may  sometimes  leap  up  in  an  imperial 

I  24 


RUINS  OF  THE  GREAT  TEMPLE  OF  Vlt'A* ' 

MYSTERIES  AT    ELEUSIS 


RUINS  OF  THE  GREAT  TEMPLE   OF  THE 
MYSTERIES  AT    ELEUSIS 


"  La 

photograph.  copyriK'ht.  by  rnaerwnn<l  cV  I'lKierwoDil.  N.  "i  . 


THE   ENVIRONS   OF    ATHENS 

nature.  Are  there  not  royal  angers  which  flame  out 
of  the  pure  furnaces  of  love?  This  noble  woman 
seems  to  me  to  be  the  present  glory  of  Eleusis. 

The  mountainous  island  of  Salamis,  long  and 
calm,  with  gray  and  orange  rocks,  lies  like  a  sentinel 
keeping  guard  over  the  harbor  of  the  Piraeus.  It  is 
so  near  to  the  mainland  that  the  sea  between  the  two 
shores  looks  like  a  lake,  lonely  and  brilliant,  with  the 
two-horned  peak  called  ''the  throne  of  Xerxes" 
standing  out  characteristically  behind  the  low-lying 
bit  of  coast  where  the  Greeks  have  set  up  an  arsenal. 
Whether  Xerxes  did  really  watch  the  famous  battle 
from  a  throne  placed  on  the  hill  with  which  his  name 
is  associated  is  very  doubtful.  But  many  travelers 
like  to  believe  it,  and  the  kind  guides  of  Athens  are 
quite  ready  to  stiffen  their  credulity. 

The  shores  of  this  beautiful  inclosed  bit  of  sea  are 
wild.  The  water  is  wonderfulh^  clear,  and  is  shot 
with  all  sorts  of  exquisite  colors.  The  strip  of  main- 
land, against  which  the  liquid  maze  of  greens  and 
blues  and  purples  seems  to  lie  motionless,  like  a 
painted  marvel,  is  a  tangle  of  wild  myrtle  and  dwarf 
shrubs  growing  in  a  sandy  soil  interspersed  with 
rocks.  Gently  the  land  curves,  forming  a  series  of 
little  shallow  bays  and  inlets,  each  one  of  which 
seems  more  delicious  than  the  last  as  3^ou  coast 
along  in  a  fisherman's  boat.  But,  unfortunately,  the 
war-ships  of  Greece  often  lie  snug  in  harbor  in  the 

127 


THE    NEAR   EAST 

slKuUnv  of  Salamis  not  far  from  the  arsenal,  and,  as 
1  have  hinted  already,  their  commander-in-chief  has 
liltlo  sympathy  with  the  inquiring  traveler.  I  shall 
not  easily  forget  the  expression  that  came  into  his 
faee  when,  in  reply  to  his  question,  "What  did  you 
come  here  for?"  I  said,  ''To  visit  the  scene  of  the 
celebrated  battle."  A  weary  incredulity  made  him 
suddenly  look  very  old;  and  I  believe  it  was  then 
that,  taking  a  pen,  he  wrote  on  the  margin  of  his  re- 
port about  me  that  I  was  ''a  very  suspicious  person." 

It  is  safer,  especially  in  war-time,  to  keep  away 
from  Salamis;  but  if  you  care  for  smiling  wild  places 
where  the  sea  is,  where  its  breath  gives  a  vivid  sense 
of  life  to  the  wilderness,  you  may  easily  forget  her 
myrtle-covered  shores  and  the  bays  of  violet  and 
turquoise. 

Of  the  many  wonderful  haunts  of  the  sea  which  I 
visited  in  Greece,  Cape  Sunium  is  perhaps  the  most 
memorable,  though  I  never  shall  forget  the  glories 
of  the  magnificent  drive  along  the  mountains  be- 
tween Athens  and  Corinth.  But  Sunium  has  its 
ruined  temple,  standing  on  a  great  height.  And  in 
some  of  us  a  poet  has  wakened  a  wondering  con- 
sciousness of  its  romance,  perhaps  when  we  sat  in  a 
Northern  land  beside  the  winter  fire.  And  in  some 
of  us,  too,  an  immortal  painter  has  roused  a  longing 
to  see  it,  when  we  never  thought  to  be  carried  by  our 
happy  fate  to  Greece. 

128 


THE   ENVIRONS   OF   ATHENS 

In  going  to  Sunium  I  passed  through  the  famous 
mining  district  of  Laurium,  where  now  many  con- 
victs work  out  their  sentences.  In  ancient  times 
slaves  toiled  there  for  the  benefit  of  those  citizens 
who  had  hereditary  leases  granted  by  the  state. 
They  worked  the  mines  for  silver,  but  now  lead  is 
the  principal  product.  It  happened  that  just  as  we 
were  in  the  middle  of  the  dingy  town,  or  village, 
where  the  miners  and  their  families  dwell, — for  only 
some  of  them  are  convicts, — a  tire  of  the  motor 
burst.  This  of  course  delayed  us,  and  I  was  able  to 
see  something  of  the  inhabitants.  In  Athens  I  had 
heard  that  they  were  a  fierce  and  ill-mannered 
population.  I  found  them,  on  the  contrary,  as  I  found 
almost  all  those  whom  I  met  in  Greece,  cheerful, 
smiling,  and  polite.  Happy,  if  rather  dirty,  children 
gathered  round  us,  delighted  to  have  something  to 
look  at  and  wonder  about.  Men,  going  to  or  com- 
ing from  the  works,  paused  to  see  what  was  the  mat- 
ter and  to  inquire  where  I  came  from.  From  the 
windows  of  the  low,  solid-looking  houses  women 
leaned  eagerly  out  with  delighted  faces.  Several  of 
the  latter  talked  to  me.  I  could  not  understand  what 
they  said,  and  all  they  could  understand  was  that  I 
came  from  London,  a  circumstance  which  seemed 
greatly  to  impress  them,  for  they  called  it  out  from 
one  to  another  up  the  street.  We  carried  on  inter- 
course mainly  by  facial  expression  and  elaborate 

I  29 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

i;csturc,  assisted  genially  by  the  grubby  little  boys. 
Ami  when  I  got  into  the  car  to  go  we  were  all  the 
best  of  friends.  The  machine  made  the  usual  irri- 
table noises,  but  from  the  good  people  of  Laurium 
came  only  cries  of  good-will,  among  them  that 
pleasant  admonition  which  one  hears  often  in 
Greece :  ''Enjoy  yourself !    Enjoy  yourself !" 

When  Laurium  was  left  behind  we  were  soon  in 
wild  and  deserted  country.  Now  and  then  we  passed 
an  Albanian  on  horseback,  with  a  gun  over  his 
shoulder,  a  knife  stuck  in  his  belt,  or  we  came  upon  a 
shepherd  watching  his  goats  as  they  browsed  on  the 
low  scrub  which  covered  the  hills.  All  the  people  in 
this  region  are  Albanians,  I  was  told.  They  ap- 
peared to  be  very  few.  As  we  drew  near  to  the  an- 
cient shrine  of  Poseidon  we  left  far  behind  us  the 
habitations  of  men.  At  length  the  car  stopped  in 
the  wilderness,  and  on  a  height  to  my  left  I  saw 
the  dazzling  white  marble  columns  of  the  Temple  of 
Sunium. 

Almost  all  the  ruins  I  saw  in  Greece  were  weather- 
stained.  Their  original  color  was  mottled  with 
browns  and  grays,  with  saffron,  with  gold  and  red- 
gold.  But  the  columns  of  Sunium  have  kept  their 
brilliant  whiteness,  although  they  stand  on  a  great, 
bare  cliff  above  the  sea,  exposed  to  the  glare  of  the 
sun  and  to  the  buffeting  of  every  wind  of  heaven. 
They  are  raised  not  merely  on  this  natural  height, 

130 


THE   ENVIRONS   OF   ATHENS 

but  also  on  a  great  platform  of  the  famous  Poros- 
stone.  In  the  time  of  Byron  there  were  sixteen  col- 
umns standing.  There  are  now  eleven,  with  a  good 
deal  of  architrave.  These  columns  are  Doric,  and 
are  about  twenty  feet  in  height.  They  have  not  the 
majesty  of  the  Parthenon  columns,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, have  a  peculiar  delicacy  and  even  grace,  which 
is  lacking  both  in  the  Parthenon  and  in  the  Theseum. 
They  do  not  move  you  to  awe  or  overwhelm  you; 
they  charm  and  delight  you.  In  their  ivory-white 
simplicity,  standing  out  against  the  brilliant  blue  of 
sea  and  sky  on  the  white  and  gray  platform,  there  is 
something  that  allures. 

Upon  one  of  the  columns  I  found  the  name  of 
Byron  carved  in  bold  letters.  But  I  looked  in  vain 
for  the  name  of  Turner.  Byron  loved  the  Cape  of 
Sunium.  Fortunately,  nothing  has  been  done  to 
make  it  less  wonderful  since  his  time.  It  is  true  that 
fewer  columns  are  standing  to  bear  witness  to  the 
old  worship  of  the  sea-god;  but  such  places  as  Su- 
nium are  not  injured  when  some  blocks  of  marble 
fall,  but  when  men  begin  to  build.  Still  the  noble 
promontory  thrusts  itself  boldly  forward  into  the 
sea  from  the  heart  of  an  undesecrated  wilderness. 
Still  the  columns  stand  quite  alone.  All  the  sea- 
winds  can  come  to  you  there,  and  all  the  winds  of  the 
hills—winds  from  the  yEgean  and  Mediterranean, 
from  crested  Eubcea,  from  Melos,  from  Hydra,  from 

131 


THE    NEAR   EAST 

.i:£rina,  with  its  beautiful  Doric  temple,  from  Argo- 
lis  and  from  the  mountains  of  Arcadia.  And  it 
seems  as  if  all  the  sunshine  of  heaven  were  there  to 
bathe  you  in  golden  fire,  as  if  there  could  be  none  left 
over  for  the  rest  of  the  world.  The  coasts  of  Greece 
stretch  away  beneath  you  into  far  distances,  curving 
in  bays,  thrusting  out  in  promontories,  here  tawny 
and  volcanic,  there  gray  and  quietly  sober  in  color, 
but  never  cold  or  dreary.  White  sails,  but  only  two 
or  three,  are  dreaming  on  the  vast  purple  of  Posei- 
don's kingdom — white  sails  of  mariners  who  are 
bound  for  the  isles  of  Greece.  Poets  have  sung  of 
those  isles.  Who  has  not  thought  of  them  with  emo- 
tion ?  Now,  between  the  white  marble  columns,  you 
can  see  their  mountain  ranges,  you  can  see  their 
rocky  shores. 

Behind  and  below  me  I  heard  a  slight  movement. 
I  got  up  and  looked.  And  there  on  a  slab  of  white 
marble  lay  a  snow-white  goat  warming  itself  in  the 
sun.  White,  gold,  and  blue,  and  far  off  the  notes  of 
white  were  echoed  not  only  by  the  mariner's  sails, 
but  by  tiny  Albanian  villages  inland,  seen  over  miles 
of  bare  country,  over  flushes  of  yellow,  where  the 
pines  would  not  be  denied. 

There  is  an  ineffable  charm  in  the  landscape,  in 
the  atmosphere,  of  Greece.  No  other  land  that  I 
know  possesses  an  exactly  similar  spell.  Wildness 
and  calm  seem  woven  together,  a  warm  and  almost 

132 


THE  ODEUM   OF  HERODES  ATTICUS  IN  ATHENS 


THE    ENVIRONS   OF   ATHENS 

caressing  wildness  with  a  calm  that  is  full  of 
romance.  There  the  wilderness  is  indeed  a  haven  to 
long  after,  and  there  the  solitudes  call  you  as  if  with 
the  voices  of  friends. 

As  I  turned  at  last  to  go  away  from  Poseidon's 
white  marble  ruin,  a  one-armed  man  came  up  to  me, 
and  in  English  told  me  that  he  was  the  guardian  of 
the  temple. 

''But  where  do  you  live?"  I  asked  him,  looking 
over  the  vast  solitude. 

Smiling,  he  led  the  w^ay  down  to  a  low  white- 
washed bungalow  at  a  little  distance.  There,  in  a 
rough  but  delicious  loggia,  paved  and  fronting  the 
sea,  I  found  two  brown  women  sitting  with  a  baby 
among  some  small  pots -of  flowers.  Remote  from 
the  world,  with  only  the  marble  columns  for  neigh- 
bors, with  no  voice  but  the  sea's  to  speak  to  them, 
dwell  these  four  persons.  The  man  lived  and  worked 
for  many  years  in  Pittsburgh,  Pennsylvania,  where 
he  lost  his  arm  in  some  whirring  machinery.  Now 
he  has  come  home  and  entered  the  sea-god's  service. 
Pittsburgh  and  the  Hellenic  wilderness — what  a 
contrast!  But  my  one-armed  friend  takes  it  philo- 
sophically. He  shrugs  his  shoulder,  points  to  his 
stump,  and  says,  "I  guess  I  could  n't  go  on  there  like 
this,  so  I  had  to  quit,  and  they  put  me  here." 

They  put  him  ''here,"  on  Cape  Sunium,  and  on 
Cape  Sunium  he  has  built  himself  a  house  and  made 

135 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

\ov  himself  a  loggia,  white,  cool,  brightened  with 
tlowcrs,  face  to  face  with  the  purple  sea,  and  the  isles 
and  the  mountains  of  Greece.  And  at  Sunium  he  in- 
tends to  remain  because,  unfortunately,  having  lost 
an  arm,  he  is  no  longer  wanted  in  Pittsburgh. 

I  gave  him  some  money,  accepted  the  baby's  wav- 
ering but  insistent  hand,  and  left  him  to  his  good  or 
ill  fortune  in  the  exquisite  wilderness. 


136 


DELPHI  AND  OLYMPIA 


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^#  •> 


-^..j^^-  ^' 


THE   SITK  OP  ANCIENT  DELPHI 


Chapter  IV 
DELPHI  AND  OLYMPIA 

THERE  are  two  ways  of  going  from  Athens 
to  Delphi:  by  sea  from  the  Piraeus  to  Itea 
and  thence  by  carriage;  or  by  motor.  De- 
spite the  rough  surfaces  of  the  roads  and  the  terrors 
of  dust,  I  chose  the  latter;  and  I  was  well  rewarded. 
For  the  drive  is  a  glorious  one,  though  very  long  and 
fatiguing,  and  it  enabled  me  to  see  a  grand  monu- 
ment which  many  travelers  miss — the  Lion  of  Chse- 
ronea,  which  gazes  across  a  vast  plain  in  a  solitary 
place  between  Thebes  and  Delphi. 

Leaving  Athens  early  one  morning,  I  followed  the 
Via  Sacra,  left  Eleusis  behind  me,  traversed  the 
Thriasian  plain,  the  heights  of  Mount  Geraneia,  and 
the  rich  cultivated  plain  of  Boeotia,  passed  through 
the  village  of  Kriekouki,  and  arrived  at  Thebes. 
There  I  halted  for  an  hour.  After  leaving  Thebes, 
the  journey  became  continually  more  and  more  in- 
teresting as  I  drew  near  to  Parnassus:  over  the  plain 
of  Livadia,  through  the  village  and  khan  of  Gravia, 
where  one  hundred  and  eighty  Greeks  fought  he- 

12  ^ 


THE  NEAR   EAST 

roically  against  three  thousand  Turks  in  1821,  over 
the  magnificent  Pass  of  Amblema,  across  the  de- 
lightful oHve-covered  plain  of  Krissa,  and  up  the 
mountain  to  Delphi. 

Throughout  this  wonderful  journey,  during  which 
I  saw  country  alternately  intimate  and  wild,  genial 
and  majestic,  and  at  one  point  almost  savage,  I  had 
only  one  deception:  that  was  on  the  Pass  of  Am- 
blema, which  rises  to  more  than  eight  thousand  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  sea.  Delphi,  I  felt,  ought  to  be 
there.  Delphi,  I  believed,  must  be  there,  hidden 
somewhere  among  the  rocks  and  the  fir-woods, 
where  wolves  lurk,  and  where  the  eagle  circles  and 
swoops  above  peaks  which  are  cold  and  austere. 
Only  when  we  began  to  descend  in  serpentine 
curves,  when  I  saw  far  below  me  great  masses  of 
olive-trees,  and  the  distant  shining  of  the  sea,  did  I 
realize  that  I  was  mistaken,  and  that  Delphi  lay 
beyond,  in  a  region  less  tragically  wild,  more  rustic, 
even  more  tender. 

During  this  journey  of,  I  believe,  about  three  hun- 
dred kilometers  or  more,  I  realized  fully  the  lone- 
liness that  happily  shadows  a  great  part  of  Greece. 
We  seemed  to  be  almost  perpetually  in  the  midst  of 
a  delightful  desolation,  gloriously  alone  with  nature, 
now  far  up  on  bare  flanks  of  the  hills,  now  traveling 
through  deserted  pine-woods  or  olive-groves,  now 
upon  plains  which  extended  to  shadowy  ranges  of 

142 


X 


O 

a 

r 

C 

n 
o 

S 


> 


DELPHI   AND   OLYMPIA 

mountains,  and  which  here  and  there  reminded  me 
of  the  plains  of  Palestine.  Strange  it  seemed  to 
come  upon  an  occasional  village  of  Greeks  or  Al- 
banians, strayed,  surely,  and  lost  and  forgotten  in 
the  wilderness;  stranger  still  to  see  now  and  then 
some  tiny  Byzantine  church,  perhaps  with  a  few 
cypresses  about  it,  perched  on  a  mountain  height 
that  looked  as  if  it  never  had  been  trodden  by  foot  of 
man.  The  breezes  that  met  us  were  alive  with  a 
tingling  purity  of  hilltop  and  sea,  or  sweet  and 
wholesome  with  the  resinous  odor  of  pine.  And  the 
light  that  lay  over  the  face  of  the  land  made  nearly 
all  things  magical. 

Again  we  met  Turkish  Gipsies.  In  Greece  they 
have  made  the  wild  life  their  own.  No  longer  one 
hears  of  brigands,  though  only  a  few  years  ago  these 
highways  were  dangerous,  and  men  traversed  them 
armed  and  at  their  own  peril.  Now  the  Gipsies  are 
in  happy  possession,  and  travel  from  place  to  place 
in  small  caravans,  with  their  mules,  donkeys,  and 
dogs,  and  their  tiny  peaked  tents,  telling  the  bonne 
aventure  to  the  superstitious,  and,  so  the  Greeks  de- 
clare, stealing  whatever  they  can  lay  their  dark 
hands  on.  They  look  wild  and  smiling,  crafty  rather 
than  ferocious;  and  they  greet  you  with  loud  cries  in 
an  unknown  tongue,  and  with  gestures  expressive  of 
the  perpetual  desire  to  receive  which  seems  inherent 
in  all  true  vagabonds.  They  pitch  their  tents  usually 

145 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

on  the  outskirts  of  the  villages,  staying  for  days  or 
weeks,  as  the  luck  serves  them.  And,  so  far  as  I 
could  judge,  people  receive  them  with  good  nature, 
perhaps  grateful  for  the  excitement  they  hring  into 
lives  that  know  little  variation  as  season  follows  sea- 
son and  year  glides  into  year.  Just  outside  Thebes 
1  found  eleven  of  their  tents  set  upon  some  rough 
ground,  the  beasts  tethered,  the  dogs  on  guard,  the 
babies  toddling  and  sprawling,  while  their  mothers 
were  cooking  some  mysterious  compound,  and  the 
men  were  away  perhaps  on  some  nefarious  errand 
among  the  excited  Thebans.  For  that  day  Greek 
officers  were  visiting  the  town,  and  in  front  of  the 
cafe,  among  the  trees,  and  above  the  waterside, 
where  we  stopped  to  lunch,  there  was  a  parade  of 
horses,  mules,  and  donkeys  from  all  the  neighbor- 
hood. War  was  taking  its  toll  of  the  live-stock,  and 
the  whole  population  was  abroad  to  see  the  fun. 

As  soon  as  I  had  descended  from  the  car  and  be- 
gun to  unpack  my  provisions,  an  elderly  man  came 
up,  asked  whether  we  were  from  Athens,  and  then 
put  the  question  that  is  forever  on  the  lips  of  the 
Greek,  ''What  is  the  news  ?"  Every  Greek  has  a  pas- 
sion for  the  latest  news.  Often,  when  I  was  travel- 
ing through  the  country,  people  I  passed  on  the  way 
called  out  to  me,  ''What  is  the  news?"  or,  "Can  you 
give  us  a  newspaper?" 

Thebes,  where,  according  to  legend,  Hercules  was 

146 


DELPHI    AND   OLYMPIA 

born;  where  the  stones  gathered  themselves  to- 
gether when  Amphion  struck  his  lyre;  where  blind 
Tiresias  prophesied;  and,  seated  upon  a  block  of 
stone,  the  Sphinx  asked  her  riddle  of  the  passers-by 
and  slew  them;  where  CEdipus  ruled  and  suffered  his 
hideous  fate;  where  the  Epigoni  took  their  ven- 
geance; and  Epaminondas  showed  how  one  man  can 
lift  a  city  and  set  it  on  a  throne  above  all  the  cities 
of  its  fatherland — Thebes,  where  letters  were  first 
brought  into  use  among  the  Greeks,  and  where 
weak-voiced  Demosthenes  by  his  eloquence  per- 
suaded the  people  to  march  to  their  glorious  death 
against  Philip  of  Macedon,  is  now  just  a  busy  village 
on  the  flank  of  a  hill.  Frequently  devastated  by 
earthquakes,  which  are  the  scourge  of  this  region,  it 
looks  newly  built,  fairly  clean  and  neat.  It  domi- 
nates the  plain  in  which  Plutarch  was  born,  and  the 
murmur  of  its  waters  is  pleasant  to  the  ear  in  a  dry 
and  thirsty  land.  But  though  Thebes  is  not  specially 
Interesting,  below  it,  in  that  plain  once  celebrated 
for  its  flowers, — iris  and  lily,  narcissus  and  rose, — > 
beyond  all  sound  of  the  voices  of  chattering  peasants 
or  determined  soldiers,  solitary  in  its  noble  rage  and 
grief,  is  that  most  moving  of  monuments,  the  Lion 
of  Chseronea. 

I  came  upon  it  unexpectedly.  If  I  had  not  hap- 
pened to  be  looking  toward  the  left  my  chauffeur 
would  have  driven  me  on  'without  pause  to  Parnas- 

147 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

sus,  the  mighty  flanks  of  which  were  already  visible 
in  the  distance.  When  he  pulled  up  we  were  already 
almost  out  of  sight  of  the  lion.  And  I  was  glad  as  I 
walked  back  alone,  still  more  glad  when  I  stood  be- 
fore it  in  solitude,  surrounded  by  the  great  silence  of 
the  plain. 

There  where  the  Hon  sits,  raised  now  on  a  high 
pedestal  and  with  cypresses  planted  about  him,  was 
fought  the  great  battle  of  Chseronea  between  the 
Greeks  and  Philip  of  Macedon;  and  there  the  Greeks 
lost  much,  but  not  their  honor.  Had  it  been  other- 
wise, would  the  lion  be  there  now  after  so  many  cen- 
turies, testifying  to  the  grief  of  men  long  since  dead, 
to  their  anger,  even  to  their  despair,  but  not  to  their 
cowardice  or  shame?  I  have  heard  people  say  that 
the  face  of  the  lion  does  express  shame.  It  seems  to 
me  nobly  passionate,  loftily  angry  and  sad,  but  not 
ashamed.  The  Thebans  raised  it  to  commemorate 
those  of  their  comrades  in  arms  who  died  on  the 
battle-field.  What  shame  can  attach  to  such  men? 
For  long  years  the  lion  lay  broken  in  pieces  and 
buried  in  the  earth.  Only  in  1902  were  the  frag- 
ments fitted  together,  though  long  before  that  they 
had  lain  above  ground,  where  many  noted  travelers 
had  seen  them.  The  restoration  has  been  splendidly 
successful,  and  has  given  to  Greece  one  of  the  most 
memorable  manifestations  in  marble  of  a  state  of 
soul  that  exists  not  merely  in  Greece,  but  in  the 

148 


From  a  photograph,  copyright,  by  Underwood  &  1  luierwood,  N.  Y. 


I'HK   LION   OF  CH.tRONEA,  THE  ACROPOLIS 
AND    MOUNT   PARNASSUS 


DELPHI   AND   OLYMPIA 

world.    Lion-hearted  men  are  superbly  commemo- 
rated by  this  lion. 

The  height  of  the  statue  from  the  top  of  the 
pedestal  is  about  twenty  feet.  The  material  of  which 
it  is  made,  marble  of  Boeotia,  was  once,  I  believe, 
blue-gray.  It  is  now  gray  and  yellow.  The  lion  is 
sitting,  but  in  an  attitude  that  suggests  fierce  vital- 
ity. Both  the  huge  front  paws  seem  to  grasp  the 
pedestal  almost  as  if  the  claws  were  extended  in  an 
impulse  of  irresistible  anger.  The  head  is  raised. 
The  expression  on  the  face  is  wonderful.  There  is 
in  it  a  savage  intensity  of  feeling  that  is  rarely  to  be 
found  in  anything  Greek.  But  the  savagery  is  en- 
nobled in  some  mysterious  way  by  the  sublime  art 
of  the  sculptor,  is  lifted  up  and  made  ideal,  eternal. 
It  is  as  if  the  splendid  rage  in  the  souls  of  all  men 
who  ever  have  died  fighting  on  a  losing  side  had  been 
gathered  up  by  the  soul  of  the  sculptor,  and  con- 
veyed by  him  whole  into  his  work.  The  mysterious 
human  spirit,  breathed  upon  from  eternal  regions, 
glows  in  this  divine  lion  of  Greece. 

Various  writers  on  the  scenery  of  Greece  have  de- 
scribed it  as  "alpine"  in  character.  One  has  even 
used  the  word  in  connection  with  some  of  the  moun- 
tain-ranges that  may  be  seen  from  the  plain  of 
Attica.  Such  distracting  visions  of  Switzerland  did 
not  beset  my  spirit  as  I  traveled  through  a  more 
beautiful  and  far  more  romantic  land,  absolutely 


THE   NEAR  EAST 

different  from  the  contented  republic  which  has 
been  chosen  by  Europe  as  its  playground.  But 
there  were  moments,  as  we  slowly  ascended  the  Pass 
of  Amblema,  when  I  thought  of  the  North.  For  the 
delicate  and  romantic  serenity  of  the  Greek  land- 
scape did  here  give  wa}^  to  something  that  was  al- 
most savage,  almost  spectacular.  The  climbing 
forests  of  dark  and  hardy  firs  made  me  think  of 
snow,  which  lies  among  them  deep  in  winter.  The 
naked  peaks,  the  severe  uplands,  the  precipices,  the 
dim  ravines,  bred  gloom  in  the  soul.  There  was  sad- 
ness combined  with  wildness  in  the  scene,  which  a 
premature  darkness  was  seizing,  and  the  cold  wind 
seemed  to  go  shivering  among  the  rocks. 

It  was  then  that  I  thought  of  Delphi,  and  believed 
that  we  must  be  nearing  the  home  of  the  oracle.  As 
we  climbed  and  climbed,  and  the  cold  increased,  and 
the  world  seemed  closing  brutally  about  us,  I  felt  no 
longer  in  doubt.  We  must  be  close  to  Delphi,  old  re- 
gion of  mysteries  and  terror,  where  the  god  of  the 
dead  was  thought  to  be  hidden,  where  Apollo  fought 
with  Python,  where  men  came  with  fear  in  their 
hearts  to  search  out  the  future. 

But  presently  we  began  to  descend,  and  I  learned 
that  we  were  still  a  long  way  from  Delphi.  The  sun 
set,  and  evening  was  falling  when  we  were  once 
more  down  on  the  sea-level,  traversing  one  of  the 
most  delightful  and  fertile  regions  of  Greece,  the 

152 


^.. 


Frrini  a  i.hnt.. 


i-M.   \>\  rii.lerw.x.d  .V  Uiidt-riv. 


PLACE  OF  THE   FAMOUS    ORACLE,   DELPHI 


DELPHI   AND   OLYMPIA 

lovely  plain  of  Krissa,  which  extends  to  the  sea.  The 
great  olive-gardens  stretch  away  for  miles  on  every 
hand,  interspersed  here  and  there  with  plane-trees, 
mulberry-trees,  medlars,  cypresses,  and  the  wild 
oleander.  Many  battles  have  been  fought  in  that 
sylvan  paradise,  which  now  looks  the  home  of  peace, 
a  veritable  Garden  of  Eden  lying  between  moun- 
tains and  sea.  Pilgrims  traveling  to  Delphi  were 
forced  to  pay  toll  there,  and  eventually  the  extortion 
became  so  intolerable  that  it  led  to  war.  That  even- 
ing, as  we  drove  along  a  road  cut  straight  through 
the  heart  of  the  olive-woods,  the  whole  region 
seemed  sunk  in  a  dream.  We  met  no  one;  we  heard 
no  traffic,  no  voices,  no  barking  of  dogs.  The  thou- 
sands of  splendid  trees,  planted  symmetrically,  were 
moved  by  no  breeze.  Warmth  and  an  odorous  calm 
pervaded  the  shadowy  alleys  between  them.  Here 
and  there  a  soft  beam  of  light  shone  among  the  trees 
from  the  window  of  a  guardian's  dwelling.  And 
once  we  stopped  to  take  Turkish  coffee  under  a  vine- 
trimmed  arbor,  solitary  and  lost  in  the  sweet  silence, 
in  the  silver  dusk  of  the  forest.  A  lodge  in  the 
wilderness!  As  I  looked  at  the  dark,  bright-eyed 
man  who  served  us,  I,  perhaps  foolishly,  envied  him 
his  life,  his  strange  little  home,  remote,  protected  by 
his  only  companions,  the  trees. 

In  this  plain  camels  are  used  for  transport,  and,  I 
believe,  for  plowing  and  other  work.    They  are  to  be 

^55 


THE   NEAR  EAST 

found  nowhere  else  in  Greece.  I  saw  none  that 
night;  but  one  morning,  after  leaving  Delphi,  I  met 
a  train  of  them  pacing  softly  and  disdainfully  along 
the  dusty  road,  laden  with  bales  and  with  mysterious 
bundles  wrapped  round  with  sacking. 

In  the  dark  we  began  to  climb  up  once  more.  At 
last  we  were  actually  on  Parnassus,  were  approach- 
ing the  ''navel  of  the  earth."  But  I  was  not  aware  of 
any  wildness,  such  as  that  of  Amblema,  about  us. 
The  little  I  could  see  of  the  landscape  did  not  look 
savage.  I  heard  goat-bells  tinkling  now  and  then 
not  far  off.  Presently  some  lights  beamed  out  above 
us,  as  if  in  welcome.  We  passed  through  a  friendly 
village  street,  came  out  on  the  mountain-side,  and 
drew  up  before  a  long  house,  which  stood  facing 
what  was  evidently  a  wide  view,  now  almost  en- 
tirely hidden,  though  a  little  horned  moon  hung  in 
the  sky,  attended  by  the  evening  star.  The  village 
was  Kastri;  the  long  house  was  the  "Hotel  d'Apol- 
lon  Pythien." 

Delphi  is  memorable,  but  not  because  of  wildness 
or  terror.  In  retrospect  it  rises  in  my  mind  as  a 
lonely  place  of  light,  gleaming  on  volcanic  rocks  and 
on  higher  rocks  that  are  gray ;  of  a  few  mighty  plane- 
trees,  pouring  a  libation  of  green  toward  olive-trees 
on  the  slopes  beneath  them;  of  a  perpetual  sweet 
sound  of  water.  And  beside  the  water  travelers  from 
the  plain  of  Krissa,  and  travelers  from  Arachova, 

156 


DELPHI   AND   OLYMPIA 

that  wonderfully  placed  Parnassian  village,  re- 
nowned for  its  beautiful  women,  are  pausing.  They 
get  down  from  their  horses  and  mules  to  lave  their 
hands  and  to  drink.  They  cross  themselves  before 
the  little  Christian  shrine  under  the  trees  by  the 
roadside.    They  sit  down  in  the  shadows  to  rest. 

It  is  very  sweet  to  rest  for  long  hours  by  the  Cas- 
talian  fountain  of  Delphi,  remote  from  all  habita- 
tions upon  the  great  southern  slope  of  Parnassus, 
under  the  tree  of  Agamemnon;  to  listen  to  the  voice 
of  the  lustral  wave.  There,  in  the  dead  years,  the 
pilgrims  piously  sprinkled  themselves  before  con- 
sulting the  oracle;  there,  now,  the  brown  women  of 
the  mountains  chatter  gaily  as  they  wash  their 
clothes.  The  mountain  is  bare  behind  the  shrine, 
where  perhaps  is  a  figure  of  Mary  with  Christ  in  her 
arms,  or  some  saint  with  outspread  wings.  Its  great 
precipices  of  rock  are  tawny.  They  bloom  with 
strong  reds  and  yellows,  they  shine  with  scars  of 
gold.  Among  the  rocks  the  stream  is  only  a  thread 
of  silver,  though  under  the  bridge  it  flows  down 
through  the  olive-gardens,  a  broad  band  of  singing 
happiness. 

Delphi  has  a  mountain  charm  of  remoteness,  of 
lofty  silence;  it  has  also  a  seduction  of  pastoral 
warmth  and  gentleness  and  peace.  Far  up  on  the 
slope  of  gigantic  Parnassus,  it  faces  a  narrow  valley, 
or  ravine,  and  a  bare,  calm  mountain,  scarred  by 

157 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

zigzag-  paths,  which  look  almost  like  lines  sharply 
cut  in  the  volcanic  soil  with  an  instrument.  In  the 
distance,  away  to  the  right,  the  defile  opens  out  into 
tlic  plain  of  Krissa,  at  the  edge  of  which  lies  a  section 
of  sea,  like  a  huge  uncut  turquoise  lying  in  a  cup  of 
the  land.  Beyond  are  ranges  of  beautiful,  delicate 
mountains. 

The  ruins  of  Delphi  lie  above  the  highroad  to  the 
left  of  it,  between  Kastri  and  the  Castalian  fountain, 
unshaded,  in  a  naked  confusion,  but  free  from  mod- 
ern houses  and  in  a  fine  loneliness.  Once,  and  not 
very  long  ago,  the  village  of  Kastri  stood  close  to  the 
ruins,  and  some  of  it  actually  above  them.  But  when 
excavations  were  undertaken  seriously,  all  the  houses 
were  pulled  down,  and  set  up  again  where  they  stand 
to-day.  Like  the  ruins  at  Eleusis  and  Olympia,  the 
remains  at  Delphi  are  fragmentary.  The  ancient 
Hellenes  believed  that  the  center  of  the  earth  was  at 
a  certain  spot  within  the  Temple  of  Apollo  at  Del- 
phi, where  the  eagles  of  Zeus,  flying  from  the  two 
ends  of  the  earth,  had  met.  The  foundations,  and 
some  portions  of  the  walls  of  this  celebrated  shrine, 
in  which  two  golden  eagles  stood,  may  be  visited, 
but  very  little  of  It  remains.  On  the  foundation  has 
been  set  up  a  large  Roman  column,  upon  which  once 
stood  a  statue.  The  fallen  blocks  of  Doric  columns 
are  gigantic,  and  from  them  It  Is  possible  to  gain 
some  faint  idea  of  the  temple's  Immense  size  and 

158 


VIKW   OF  MOUNT   PARNASSUS 


From  a  photograph,  copyriirht.  liy  Uiulcrwooii  .t  Underwood.  N.  Y. 


DELPHI    AND   OLYMPIA 

massiveness.  In  the  midst  of  a  pit  of  stone,  not  far 
from  the  columns,  I  found  a  soHtary  fig-tree  grow- 
ing. It  is  interesting  to  notice  that  the  huge  outer 
wall  of  the  temple  was  constructed  of  quantities  of 
blocks,  each  one  differing  in  shape  from  its  neigh- 
bors. These  were  ingeniously  fitted  close  together 
w^ithout  the  aid  of  any  joining  material.  Although 
it  is  impossible  not  to  wonder  at  and  admire  the 
cleverness  shown  in  this  wall,  it  produced  on  my 
mind  an  impression  of  confusion  that  was  almost 
painful.  The  multitudes  of  irregular  lines  distressed 
my  eyes.  There  is  little  repose  in  a  puzzle,  and  this 
wall  is  like  a  mighty  puzzle  in  stone. 

Among  the  masses  of  broken  fragments  whicli 
cover  much  of  the  hillside  stands  out  a  small,  solid 
building  of  Parian  marble,  very  pure,  very  clean, 
almost  shining  under  the  rays  of  the  sun.  It  resem- 
bles a  great  marble  casket  in  which  something  very 
precious  might  be  placed  and  sealed  up.  This  is  the 
treasury  of  the  Athenians,  which  has  been  recon- 
structed since  Kastri  was  moved  from  the  fragments 
of  the  original  temple.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  tiny  Doric 
temple.  The  marble,  of  a  beautiful  ycllow-whitc 
color,  is  mingled  here  and  there  willi  UniestDnc. 
This  little  temple  stands  on  a  platform,  witli  llic 
clearly  defined  Sacred  Wny  windiii--  up  tlic  hill  be- 
side it.  The  front  of  it  is  aj)proaclic(l  by  two  stci)s, 
and  it  lins  two  Doric  mlnmns,  containing,  however, 

i6t 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

only  two  blocks  of  the  original  marble,  brown,  with 
touches  of  old  gold.  The  remaining  blocks  of  these 
columns  are  of  white  Poros  marble,  brought  from  a 
distance,  and  they  look  rough  and  almost  glaring. 
Poros  marble  may  always  be  recognized  by  the  mi- 
nute shining  grains,  like  specks  of  gold,  that  are 
scattered  through  it.  Although  a  fine  substance,  it 
looks  vulgar  when  placed  beside  Parian  marble. 

The  semicircular  places  in  which  the  priests  of 
Delphi  used  to  sit  may  still  be  seen,  facing  a  fine 
view.  The  sea  is  hidden  by  a  shoulder  of  the  moun- 
tain, but  the  rolling  slopes  beyond  the  road  are  cov- 
ered thickly  with  olive-trees,  among  which  the 
goat-bells  chime  almost  perpetually;  and  on  the  far 
side  of  the  narrow  valley  the  bare  slopes,  with  their 
tiny,  red  paths,  lead  calmly  toward  rocky  summits. 
To  the  left  the  highroad  turns  sharply  round  a  rock 
in  the  direction  of  the  Castalian  fountain. 

In  the  fairly  well-preserved  theater  to  the  north- 
west, quantities  of  yellow  flowers  were  growing, 
with  some  daisies.  Among  the  gray  limestone 
blocks  of  the  orchestra  I  found  a  quantity  of  excel- 
lent blackberries.  Where  once  was  the  stage,  there 
are  now  brown  grasses  dried  up  by  the  sun.  This 
theater  is  very  steep,  and  above  it  towers  a  precipice. 
Near  by,  between  the  theater  and  the  stadium,  Par- 
nassus gives  back  to  your  cry  a  swift  and  sharp  echo. 
The  gold,  red-gold,  and^ray  stadium,  which  lies 

162 


DELPHI   AND   OLYMPIA 

farther  up  the  mountain  than  the  theater,  is  partly 
ruined,  but  in  parts  is  well  preserved.  As  I  stood  in 
it,  thinking  of  the  intellectual  competitions  that 
used  to  take  place  there,  of  the  poems  recited  in  it, 
of  the  music  the  lyre  gave  forth,  and  of  the  famous 
Pythian  games,  which,  later,  used  to  be  celebrated  in 
this  strange  mountain  fastness,  I  saw  eagles  wheel- 
ing over  me  far  up  in  the  blue,  above  the  wild  gray 
and  orange  peaks. 

In  the  museum,  which  stands  in  a  splendid  posi- 
tion on  the  mountain-side,  with  a  terrace  before  it, 
there  are  many  fine  things.  Delphi  in  the  time  of  its 
greatness  contained  thousands  of  statues,  great 
numbers  of  which  were  in  bronze.  Nero,  Constan- 
tine,  and  others  carried  hundreds  of  them  away. 
One  which  they  left,  a  bronze  charioteer  in  a  long 
robe,  faces  you  as  you  enter  the  museum.  It  is  mar- 
velously  alive,  almost  seems  to  glow  with  vitality. 
The  feet  should  be  specially  noticed.  They  are  bare, 
and  are  miracles  of  sensitiveness.  Farther  on  there 
is  a  splendid  Antinous,  robust,  sensual,  egoistic,  a 
type  of  muscular  beauty  and  crude  determination, 
without  heart  or  any  sparkle  of  intellect.  Two  other 
statues  which  I  thought  exceptionally  interesting 
are  of  a  sturdy,  smiling  child  and  of  a  headless  and 
armless  woman.  The  latter,  numbered  1817  in  the 
catalogue,  is  very  gracious  and  lovely.  The  back 
of  the  figure  and  the  drapery,  especially  that  part  of 

t6'^ 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

it  which  flows  from  under  the  left  arm  to  the  heel  of 
the  right  foot,  are  exceptionally  beautiful. 

There  is  a  very  fine  view  from  the  terrace.  To- 
ward evening  it  becomes  wonderfully  romantic. 
Far  off,  the  village  of  Arachova,  perched  on  its  high 
ridge,  bounds  the  horizon.  It  is  a  view  closed  in  by 
mountains  yet  not  oppressive;  for  there  is  width 
between  the  two  ranges,  and  the  large  volcanic 
slopes  are  splendidly  spacious.  Here  and  there  on 
these  slopes  are  large  wine-colored  splashes  such  as 
you  see  often  on  the  mountains  of  Syria,  and  these 
splashes  give  warmth  to  the  scene.  Above  the  Cas- 
talian  fountain  the  two  peaks  of  the  Phaedriadse,  a 
thousand  feet  high,  stand  up  magnificently.  Be- 
tween them  is  the  famous  cleft  from  which  the  cold 
stream  issues,  to  flow  down  through  the  olive- 
groves. 

When  evening  falls,  follow  the  winding  white 
road  a  little  way  toward  Arachova.  From  the  soft 
dusk  of  the  defile  that  spreads  out  into  the  plain  of 
Krissa  the  goat-bells  still  chime  melodiously.  I  have 
heard  them  even  very  late  in  the  night.  The  section 
of  sea  that  was  turquoise  now  looks  like  solid  silver. 
Behind  it  the  mountains,  velvety  and  black,  flow 
away  in  delicate  shapes.  They  are  dreamlike,  but 
beyond  them  rise  other  ethereal  ranges  which  seem 
to  you,  as  you  gaze  on  them,  impalpable,  fluid  al- 
most, like  a  lovely  imagination  of  mountains  sum- 

164 


RUINS  OF  THE  TEMPLE   OF  APOLLO  AT  DELPHI 


pyriKht,  by  I'liderwood  &  Underwood.  N.  V. 


DELPHI   AND   OLYMPIA 

moned  up  in  your  mind.  Black-green  is  the  plain. 
Under  the  tree  of  Agamemnon  glows  a  tiny  light, 
like  an  earth-bound  star.  Where  once  the  pilgrims 
gathered  who  knew  only  the  gods,  Christian  hands 
have  tended  the  lamp  before  the  holy  picture.  And 
a  little  farther  on,  among  the  foliage  of  the  olive- 
trees,  shines  another  of  these  Christian  stars,  which, 
in  the  darkness  of  Delphi's  solitudes,  shed  their  light, 
faintly  perhaps,  but  faithfully,  upon  a  way  once 
often  trodden  by  pagans  who  now  sleep  the  last  long 
sleep.  To  what  changes  in  the  human  soul  do  these 
earth-bound  stars  bear  witness!  I  sat  beneath 
Agamemnon's  tree,  listening  to  the  cry  of  the  foun- 
,tain,  watching  the  little  lights,  till  the  night  was 
black  about  me. 

I  must  always  think  of  Olympia  as  the  poetic 
shrine  of  one  of  the  most  poetic  statues  in  the  world. 
As  the  Parthenon  seems  to  be  the  soul  of  Athens,  so 
the  Hermes  of  Praxiteles  seems  to  be  the  soul  of 
Olympia,  gathering  up  and  expressing  its  aloofness 
from  all  ugly  things,  its  almost  reflective  tenderness, 
its  profound  calm,  and  its  far-off  freedom  from  any 
sadness.  When  I  stayed  there  I  was  the  only  trav- 
eler. Never  did  I  see  any  human  being  among  the 
beautiful  ruins,  or  hear  any  voice  to  break  their  si- 
lence. Only  the  peasants  of  that  region  passed  now 
and  then  on  the  winding  track  below  the  hill  of 
Cronus,  to  lose  themselves  among  the  pine-trees. 

167 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

And  I  heard  at  a  distance  the  wonderful  sound,  eter- 
nity's murmur  withdrawn,  that  the  breeze  makes 
among  their  branches,  as  I  sat  by  the  palace  of  Nero. 

Nature  has  taken  Olympia  into  her  loving  arms. 
She  has  shed  her  pine-needles  and  her  leaves  of  the 
golden  autumn  upon  the  seats  where  the  wrestlers 
reposed.  She  has  set  her  grasses  and  flowers  among 
the  stones  of  the  Temple  of  Zeus.  Her  vines  creep 
down  to  the  edge  of  that  cup  of  her  earth  which 
holds  gently,  as  a  nurse  holds  a  sleeping  child,  pal- 
aces, temples,  altars,  shrines  of  the  gods  and  ways 
for  the  chariots.  All  the  glory  of  men  has  departed, 
but  something  remains  which  is  better  than  glory — 
peace,  loveliness,  a  pervading  promise  of  lasting 
things  beyond. 

Among  the  ruins  of  Nero's  palace  I  watched  white 
butterflies  flitting  among  feathery,  silver  grasses 
and  red  and  white  daisies.  Lizards  basked  on  the 
altar  of  Zeus.  At  the  foot  of  the  Herseum,  the  most 
ancient  temple  that  may  be  seen  in  Greece  at  this 
time,  a  jackal  whined  in  its  dwelling.  Sheep-bells 
were  sounding  plaintively  down  the  valley  beyond 
the  arch  leading  to  the  walled  way  by  which  the 
great  stadium,  where  the  games  took  place,  was  en- 
tered. When  I  got  up  presently  to  stroll  among  the 
ruins,  I  set  my  foot  on  the  tiny  ruts  of  an  uneven 
pavement,  specially  constructed  so  that  the  feet  of 
contending  athletes  should  not  slip  upon  it. 

i68 


< 

< 


DELPHI    AND   OLYMPIA 

The  ruins  lie  in  a  sheltered  and  remote  valley  far 
away  from  the  sea,  and  surrounded  by  gentle  hills, 
woods,  and  delightful  pastoral  country.  At  some 
distance  is  the  last  railway  station  of  the  Peloponne- 
sian  railway  line,  which  connects  with  the  main  line 
at  Pyrgos.  Between  the  station  and  the  low  hill  on 
which  stand  the  hotel  and  the  museum  is  strung  out 
a  small,  straggling  hamlet  of  peasants'  houses.  It  is 
very  difficult  to  realize  that  this  remote  sanctuary, 
hidden  away  in  the  green  glades  and  amid  the  pas- 
tures of  Elis,  where  the  waters  of  Cladeus  and  Al- 
pheus  glide  among  reeds  and  rushes,  was  ever 
crowded  with  people  from  all  parts  of  Greece;  that 
emperors  dwelled  there;  that  there  the  passions  of 
the  mob  were  roused  to  intense  expression;  that 
there  men  gained  the  desire  of  their  hearts  or  were 
exposed  to  the  sneers  and  opprobrium  of  their  fel- 
lows. For  Olympia  to-day  looks  like  an  ideal  home 
for  the  great  god  Pan. 

I  have  called  the  ruins  beautiful,  and  I  think  them 
so,  partly  because  of  their  situation,  with  which  they 
seem  to  me  to  combine  harmoniously,  and  partly  be- 
cause of  nature's  collaboration  with  them,  which  is 
lacking  from  the  ruins  at  Eleusis  and  even  at  Delphi. 
At  Olympia  many  trees  grow  among  the  remains  of 
the  temples.  A  river  runs  by  them.  Excavations, 
though  usually  interesting,  are  often  both  dusty  and 
ugly.    At  Olympia  they  are  pastoral.    Dryads  might 

171 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

love  them.  Pan  might  sit  happily  on  almost  any  bit 
of  the  walls  and  play  his  pipe.  They  form  a  unique 
sylvan  paradise,  full  of  wonderful  associations,  in 
which  one  is  tempted  to  rest  for  hours,  whereas  from 
many  ruins  one  wishes  only  to  get  away  once  they 
have  been  examined.  And  yet  Olympia  is  so  frag- 
mentary that  many  persons  are  bitterly  disap- 
pointed with  what  they  find  there,  as  the  visitors' 
book  in  the  little  hotel  bears  witness. 

In  all  the  mass  of  remains,  and  they  cover  a  very 
large  extent  of  ground,  I  think  I  saw  only  four  com- 
plete columns  standing.  Two  of  these  were  columns 
of  the  Herseum,  in  which  the  Hermes  of  Praxiteles 
was  found  lying  among  the  remnants.  They  are 
golden-brown  in  color,  and  are  of  course  Doric,  very 
massive  and  rather  squat.  The  temple,  the  base  of 
which  is  very  clearly  marked,  must  have  looked  very 
powerful,  but,  I  should  think,  heavy  rather  than 
really  majestic.  I  cannot  imagine  the  wonderfully 
delicate  Hermes  standing  within  it.  It  is  believed 
that  the  original  columns  of  the  Herseum  were  of 
wood,  and  that  when  they  began  to  rot  away  the 
stone  columns  were  put  up  in  their  places.  Much  of 
the  temple  was  made  of  brick.  The  Hermes  stood 
between  two  of  the  columns. 

It  will  be  evident  to  any  one  who  examines  care- 
fully all  that  is  left  of  the  Temple  of  Zeus  that  it 
must  have  been  very  grand.  Fragments  of  the  shafts 

172 


DELPHI   AND   OLYMPIA 

of  its  columns,  which  are  heaped  in  confusion  on  the 
ground,  are  enormous.  One  block,  which  I  found 
poised  upright  on  its  rounded  edge,  was  quite  six 
feet  high.  This  temple  was  made  of  limestone, 
which  is  now  of  a  rather  dreary,  almost  sinister, 
gray  color.  Exposure  to  the  weather  has  evidently 
darkened  it.  The  foundations  are  terrific.  They 
suggest  titanic  preparations  for  the  bearing  up  of  a 
universe  of  stone.  It  seems  to  me  that  from  what  is 
left  of  this  celebrated  building,  which  stands  in  the 
middle  of  the  sacred  precinct,  and  which  once  con- 
tained Phidias's  statue  of  Zeus,  about  forty  feet 
high,  one  can  gather  something  of  what  was  the 
builders'  conception  of  the  chief  of  all  the  gods  of 
Olympus.  To  them  he  must  surely  have  been  sim- 
ply the  Thunderer,  a  deity  terrific  and  forbidding,  to 
whose  worship  must  be  raised  a  temple  grand  but 
probably  almost  repellent.  Legend  relates  that 
when  Phidias  had  completed  his  great  statue  of 
Zeus,  and  it  had  been  placed  in  position,  Zeus  sent 
down  a  thunderbolt  which  struck  the  ground  close 
to  the  statue.  The  Greeks  considered  the  thunder- 
bolt to  be  the  god's  characteristic  expression  of  con- 
tent. Instead  of  the  eagles  of  Zeus,  I  saw  hovering 
over,  and  perching  upon,  this  ruin  black  and  white 
birds,  with  long  tails,  not  unlike  magpies.  The 
statue  of  Zeus  has  disappeared.  It  is  known  to  have 
been  taken  to  Constantinople,  and  in  that  tempes- 

173 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

tuous  city  it  vanished,  like  so  much  else.  In  the  time 
.of  Olympia's  glory  the  temple  was  elaborately  deco- 
rated, with  stucco,  painting,  gilding,  marble  tiles, 
shields,  and  vases,  as  well  as  with  many  statues.  But 
despite  this,  I  think  it  must  have  been  far  less  satis- 
fying than  the  calm  and  glorious  Parthenon,  in 
which  seems  to  dwell  rather  the  spirit  of  a  goddess 
than  the  spirit  of  any  human  builders. 

Earthquakes  are  frequent  at  Olympia,  and  have 
been  so  since  the  most  ancient  times.  One  destroyed 
the  greater  part  of  Zeus's  temple  about  four  hundred 
years  after  Christ.  By  that  time  the  Olympic  games 
had  ceased  to  be  held,  and  no  doubt  the  place  was 
beginning  to  fall  into  the  neglect  which,  with  the 
lapse  of  the  centuries,  has  become  so  romantic. 
After  it  was  forgotten  by  men,  nature  began  to  re- 
member and  love  it.  Very  little  of  the  famous  sta- 
dium has  been  excavated.  I  found  flocks  of  sheep 
and  goats  feeding  peacefully  above  it,  and  near  by  a 
small,  barefooted  boy,  with  a  little  gun,  out  after 
quail. 

On  the  first  day  of  my  visit  to  Olympia,  after 
spending  a  few  hours  alone  among  the  ruins  I 
crossed  the  river,  where  I  saw  some  half-naked  men 
dragging  for  fish  with  hand-nets,  and  mounted  the 
hill  to  the  museum,  which  looks  out  over  the  deli- 
cious valley,  and  is  attended  by  some  umbrella- 
pines.     It  was  closed,  but  the  keeper  came  smiling 

174 


o 
r 


> 

n 

H 
O 


X 
w 

> 
H 

n 


DELPHI    AND   OLYMPIA 

from  his  dwelling  close  by  to  let  me  in.  He  did  not 
follow  me  far,  but  sat  down  in  the  vestibule  among 
the  Roman  emperors. 

On  my  right  I  saw  the  entrance  to  what  seemed  a 
small  gallery,  or  perhaps  a  series  of  small  rooms.  In 
front  of  me  was  a  large,  calm,  well-lighted  hall,  with 
a  wooden  roof  and  walls  of  a  deep,  dull  red,  round 
which  were  ranged  various  objects.  My  eyes  were 
attracted  immediately  to  one  figure,  a  woman  ap- 
parently almost  in  flight,  radiantly  advancing,  with 
thin  draperies  floating  back  from  an  exquisitely  vital 
form — the  celebrated  ''Victory"  of  Pseonius,  now 
more  than  two  thousand  years  old.  Beyond  this 
marvel  of  suggested  motion  I  saw  part  of  another 
room  very  much  smaller  than  the  hall  and  appar- 
ently empty.  It  drew  me  on,  as  in  certain  Egyptian 
temples  the  dim  holy  of  holies  draws  the  wanderer 
onward  w^ith  an  influence  that  may  not  be  resisted. 
I  took  no  more  heed  of  the  ''Victory,"  of  Hercules 
winning  the  apples  of  the  Hesperides,  or  of  anything 
else,  but  walked  forward,  came  into  the  last  room, 
and  found  myself  alone  with  the  Hermes  of 
Olympia. 

The  room  in  which  the  Hermes  stands — alone 
save  for  the  little  child  on  his  arm — is  exactly  oppo- 
site the  distant  entrance  of  the  museum.  The 
keeper,  when  letting  me  in,  had  left  the  big  door 
wide  open.    In  my  heart  I  thanked  him,  but  not  at 

177 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

that  moment,  for  just  then  I  did  not  notice  it.  I  was 
looking  at  the  Hermes. 

A  great  deal  of  sad  nonsense  is  talked  in  our  day 
by  critics  of  art,  music,  and  literature  about  ''re- 
straint." With  them  the  word  has  become  a  mere 
parrot  cry,  a  most  blessed  word,  like  Mesopotamia. 
They  preach  restraint  very  often  to  those  who  have 
little  or  nothing  to  restrain.  The  result  is  nullity. 
In  striving  to  become  ''Greek,"  too  many  unhappy 
ones  become  nothing  at  all.  Standing  before  the 
Hermes  of  Olympia,  one  realizes  as  never  before  the 
meaning,  the  loveliness,  of  restraint,  of  the  restraint 
of  a  great  genius,  one  who  could  be  what  he  chose  to 
be,  and  who  has  chosen  to  be  serene.  This  it  is  to  be 
Greek.  Desire  of  anything  else  fails  and  lies  dead. 
In  the  small  and  silent  room,  hidden  away  from  the 
world  In  the  green  wilderness  of  Elis,  one  has  found 
that  rare  sensation,  a  perfect  satisfaction. 

Naked  the  Hermes  stands,  with  his  thin  robe  put 
off,  and  flowing  down  over  the  trunk  of  a  tree  upon 
which  he  lightly  leans.  He  is  resting  on  his  way  to 
the  nymphs,  but  not  from  any  fatigue.  Rather,  per- 
haps, because  he  is  in  no  haste  to  resign  his  little 
brother  Dionysus  to  their  hands  for  education. 
Semele,  the  mother,  is  dead,  and  surely  this  gracious 
and  lovely  child,  touching  because  of  his  innocent 
happiness,  his  innocent  eagerness  in  pleasure,  looks 
to  Hermes  as  his  protector.     He  stretches  out  one 

178 


DELPHI   AND   OLYMPIA 

soft  arm  in  an  adorable  gesture  of  desire.  The  other 
clings  to  the  shoulder  of  Hermes.  And  Hermes 
watches  him  with  an  expression  of  divine,  half-smil- 
ing gentleness,  untouched  by  sadness,  by  any  mis- 
giving, such  as  we  often  feel  about  the  future  of  a 
little  child  we  love;  Hermes  watches  him,  contem- 
plative, benign,  celestial. 

There  is  a  pause  in  the  hurry,  in  the  sorrow,  of  this 
travailing  world;  there  is  a  hush.  No  more  do  the 
human  cries  sound  in  the  midst  of  that  darkness 
which  is  created  by  our  misunderstanding.  No 
longer  do  the  frantic  footfalls  go  by.  The  golden 
age  has  returned,  with  its  knowledge  of  what  is  not 
needed — a  knowledge  that  we  have  lost. 

I  looked  up  from  Hermes  and  the  little  brother, 
and,  in  the  distance,  through  the  doorway  of  the 
museum,  I  saw  a  tiny  picture  of  Elis  bathed  in  soft, 
golden  light;  a  calm  hillside,  some  green  and  poetic 
countr}^  and,  in  the  foreground,  like  a  message,  a 
branch  of  wild  olive. 

That  is  what  we  need,  what  secretly  we  desire,  our 
branch,  perhaps  our  crown,  of  wild  olive.  And  all 
the  rest  is  as  nothing. 


179 


IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 


ti 


JH 


THE  GRAND   BAZAAR   IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 


Chapter  V 
IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

CONSTANTINOPLE  is  beautiful  and  hate- 
ful. It  fascinates  and  it  repels.  And  it 
bewilders — how  it  bewilders !  No  other  city 
that  I  have  seen  has  so  confused  and  distressed  me. 
For  days  I  could  not  release  myself  from  the  obses- 
sion of  its  angry  tumult.  Much  of  it  seems  to  be  in  a 
perpetual  rage,  pushing,  struggling,  fighting,  full  of 
ugly  determination  to  do — what?  One  does  not 
know,  one  cannot  even  surmise  what  it  desires,  what 
is  its  aim,  if,  indeed,  it  has  any  aim.  These  masses  of 
dark-eyed,  suspicious,  glittering  people  thronging 
its  streets,  rushing  down  its  alleys,  darting  out  of  its 
houses,  calling  from  its  windows,  muttering  in  its 
dark  and  noisome  corners,  gathering  in  compact, 
astonishing  crowds  in  its  great  squares  before  its 
mosques,  blackening  even  its  waters,  amid  fierce 
noises  of  sirens  from  its  innumerable  steamers  and 
yells  from  its  violent  boatmen,  what  is  it  that  they 
want?  Whither  are  they  going  in  this  brutal  haste, 
these  Greeks,  Corsicans,  Corfiotes,  Montenegrins, 

185 


THE  NEAR  EAST 

Armenians,  Jews,  Albanians,  Syrians,  Egyptians, 
Arabs,  Turks?  They  have  no  time  or  desire  to  be 
courteous,  to  heed  any  one  but  themselves.  They 
push  you  from  the  pavement.  They  elbow  you  in 
the  road.  Upon  the  two  bridges  they  crush  past 
you,  careless  if  they  tread  upon  you  or  force  you  into 
the  mud.  If  you  are  in  a  caique,  traveling  over  the 
waters  of  the  Golden  Horn,  they  run  into  you. 
Caique  bangs  into  caique.  The  boatmen  howl  at  one 
another,  and  somehow  pull  their  craft  free.  If  you 
are  in  a  carriage,  the  horses  slither  round  the  sharp 
corners,  and  you  come  abruptly  face  to  face  with 
another  carriage,  dashing  on  as  yours  is  dashing, 
carelessly,  scornfully,  reckless  apparently  of  traffic 
and  of  human  lives.  There  seems  to  be  no  plan  in 
the  tumult,  no  conception  of  anything  wanted 
quietly,  toward  which  any  one  is  moving  with  a 
definite,  simple  purpose.  The  noise  is  beyond  all 
description.  London,  even  New  York,  seems  to  me 
almost  peaceful  in  comparison  with  Constantinople. 
There  is  no  sound  of  dogs.  They  are  all  dead.  But 
even  their  sickly  howling,  of  which  one  has  heard 
much,  must  surely  have  been  overpowered  by  the 
uproar  one  hears  to-day,  except  perhaps  in  the  dead 
of  night. 

Soldiers  seem  to  be  everywhere.  To  live  in  Con- 
stantinople is  like  living  in  some  vast  camp.  When  I 
was  there,  Turkey  was  preparing  feverishly  for  war. 

i86 


IN    CONSTANTINOPLE 

The  streets  were  blocked  with  trains  of  artillery. 
The  steamers  in  the  harbor  w^ere  vomiting  forth 
regiments  of  infantry.  Patrols  of  horsemen  paraded 
the  city.  On  my  first  night  in  Pera,  when,  weary 
with  my  efforts  to  obtain  some  general  conception 
of  what  the  spectacular  monster  really  was,  what  it 
wanted,  what  it  meant,  what  it  was  about  to  do,  I 
had  at  length  fallen  asleep  toward  dawm,  I  was  wak- 
ened by  a  prolonged,  clattering  roar  beneath  my 
windows.  I  got  up,  opened  the  shutters,  and  looked 
out.  And  below  me,  in  the  semi-darkness,  I  saw  in- 
terminable lines  of  soldiers  passing:  officers  on 
horseback,  men  tramping  with  knapsacks  on  their 
backs  and  rifles  over  their  shoulders;  then  artillery, 
gun-carriages,  with  soldiers  sitting  loosely  on  them 
holding  one  another's  hands;  guns,  horses,  more 
horses,  with  officers  riding  them;  then  trains  of 
loaded  mules.  On  and  on  they  went,  and  always 
more  were  coming  behind.  I  watched  them  till  I 
was  tired,  descending  to  the  darkness  of  Galata,  to 
the  blackness  of  old  Stamboul. 

Gradually,  as  the  days  passed  by,  I  began  to  im- 
derstand  something  of  the  city,  to  realize  never  what 
it  wanted  or  what  it  really  meant,  but  something  of 
what  it  was.  It  seemed  to  me  then  like  a  person 
with  two  natures  uneasily  housed  in  one  perturbed 
body.  These  two  natures  were  startlingly  different 
the  one  from  the  otlicr.     One  was  to  me  hateful — 

187 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

Pera,  with  Galata  touching  it.  The  other  was  not  to 
be  understood  by  me,  but  it  held  me  with  an  indiffer- 
ent grasp,  and  from  it  to  me  there  flowed  a  strange 
and  ahiiost  rustic  melancholy  that  I  cared  for — 
Stamboul.  And  between  these  two  natures  a  gulf 
was  fixed — the  gulf  of  the  Golden  Horn. 

Pera  is  a  mongrel  city,  set  on  a  height  and  stream- 
ing blatantly  to  Galata;  a  city  of  tall,  discolored 
houses  not  unlike  the  houses  of  Naples;  of  embassies 
and  churches;  of  glaring  shops  and  cafes  glittering 
with  plate-glass,  through  which  crafty,  impudent 
eyes  are  forever  staring  out  upon  the  passers-by;  of 
noisy,  unattractive  hotels  and  wizen  gardens,  where 
bands  play  at  stated  hours,  and  pretentious,  painted 
women  from  second-rate  European  music-halls  pos- 
ture and  squall  under  the  light  of  electric  lamps. 
There  is  no  rest,  no  peace  in  Pera.  There  seems  to 
be  no  discipline.  Motor-cars  make  noises  there  even 
in  the  dead  of  night,  and  when  standing  still,  such  as 
I  never  before  heard  or  imagined.  They  have  a  spe- 
cial breed  of  cars  in  Pera.  Bicyclists  are  allowed  to 
use  motor  sirens  to  clear  the  way  before  them.  One 
Sunda}^  when,  owing  to  a  merciful  strike  of  the 
coachmen,  there  was  comparative  calm,  I  saw  a  boy 
on  horseback  going  at  full  gallop  over  the  pavement 
of  the  Grande  Rue.  He  passed  and  repassed  me  five 
times,  lashing  his  horse  till  it  was  all  in  a  lather.  No- 
body stopped  him.    You  may  do  anything,  it  seems, 

i88 


^^"^'   BOSPHOROUS— CON^'^^^'^IXOPLK   FN  THE  DISTANCE 


IN   CONSTANTINOPLE 

in  Pera,  if  it  is  noisy,  brutal,  objectionable.  Pera  has 
all  that  is  odious  of  the  Levant:  impudence,  ostenta- 
tion, slyness,  indelicacy,  uproar,  a  glittering  com- 
monness. It  is  like  a  blazing  ring  of  imitation 
diamonds  squeezing  a  fat  and  dirty  finger.  But  it  is 
wonderfully  interesting  simply  because  of  the  vari- 
ety of  human  types  one  sees  there.  The  strange 
thing  is  that  this  multitude  of  types  from  all  over  the 
East  and  from  all  the  nations  of  Europe  is  reduced, 
as  it  were,  by  Pera  to  a  common,  a  very  common, 
denominator.  The  influence  of  place  seems  fatal 
there. 

Stamboul  is  a  city  of  wood  and  of  marble,  of 
dusty,  frail  houses  that  look  as  if  they  had  been  run 
up  in  a  night  and  might  tumble  to  pieces  at  any  mo- 
ment, and  of  magnificent  mosques,  centuries  old, 
solid,  huge,  superb,  great  monuments  of  the  sultans. 
The  fire-tower  of  Galata  looks  toward  the  fire-tower 
of  Stamboul  across  a  forest  of  masts;  but  no  watch- 
fulness, no  swiftness  of  action,  can  prevent  flames 
from  continually  sweeping  through  Stamboul,  leav- 
ing waste  places  behind  them,  but  dying  at  the  feet 
of  the  mosques.  As  one  looks  at  Stamboul  from  the 
heights  of  Pera,  it  rises  on  its  hills  across  the  water, 
beyond  the  sea  of  the  Golden  Llorn,  like  a  wonderful 
garden  city,  warm,  almost  ruddy,  full  of  autumnal 
beauty,  with  its  red-brown  roofs  and  its  trees.  And 
out  of  its  rich-toned  rusticity  the  mosques  heave 

16  191 


THE    NEAR   EAST 

themselves  up  like  leviathans  that  have  nothing  in 
common  with  it;  the  Mosque  of  Santa  Sophia,  of  the 
Sultan  Achmet,  with  its  six  exquisite  minarets,  of 
Mohammed  the  Conqueror,  of  Suleiman  the  Mag- 
nificent, and  how  many  others! 

There  is  no  harmony  hetween  the  mosques  of 
Stamboul  and  the  houses  of  Stamboul.  The  former 
are  enduring  and  grand;  the  latter,  almost  like 
houses  of  cards.  And  yet  Stamboul  is  harmonious, 
is  very  beautiful.  Romance  seems  brooding  over  it, 
trailing  lights  and  shadows  to  clothe  it  with  flame 
and  with  darkness.  It  holds  you,  it  entices  you.  It 
sheds  upon  you  a  sense  of  mystery.  What  it  has 
seen,  Stamboul!  What  it  has  known!  What  a  core  of 
red  violence  that  heart  has  and  always  has  had! 
When  the  sunset  dies  away  among  the  autumnal 
houses  and  between  the  minarets  that  rise  above  the 
city  like  prayers;  when  the  many  cypresses  that  echo 
the  minarets  in  notes  of  dark  green  become  black, 
and  the  thousands  of  houses  seem  to  be  subtly  run 
together  into  a  huge  streak  of  umber  above  the 
lights  at  the  waterside;  when  Seraglio  Point 
stretches  like  a  shadowy  spear  toward  the  Bosporus 
and  the  Black  Sea,  and  the  coasts  of  Asia  fade  away 
in  the  night,  old  Stamboul  murmurs  to  you  with  a 
voice  that  seems  to  hold  all  secrets,  to  call  you  away 
from  the  world  of  Pera  to  the  world  of  Aladdin's 
lamp.     Pera  glitters  in  the  night  and  cries  out  to 

192 


GALATA  BRIDGE,  WHICH  CONNECTS   GALATA  AND    PERA 


m 


li,  copyright,  by  Underwood  &  Underwood,  N.  V. 


IN   CONSTANTINOPLE 

heaven.    Old  Stamboul  wraps  itself  in  a  black  veil 
and  withdraws  where  you  may  not  follow. 

When  I  think  of  Constantinople  as  a  whole,  as 
seen,  say,  from  the  top  of  the  Galata  tower,  set  up  by 
the  Genoese,  I  think  of  it  as  the  most  wonderful,  the 
most  beautiful,  and  the  most  superbly  situated  city 
I  ever  have  seen. 

It  is  an  Eastern  city  of  the  sea,  pierced  by  water  at 
its  heart,  giving  itself  to  the  winds  from  Marmora, 
from  the  Golden  Horn,  from  the  Bosporus,  from  the 
Black  Sea.  The  snows  of  Asia  look  upon  it  across 
the  blue  waters  of  Marmora,  where  the  lies  des 
Princes  sleep  in  a  flickering  haze  of  gold.  Stamboul 
climbs,  like  Rome,  to  the  summits  of  seven  hills,  and 
gazes  over  the  great  harbor,  crowded  with  a  forest 
of  masts,  echoing  with  sounds  of  the  sea,  to  Galata, 
and  to  Pera  on  the  height.  And  the  Golden  Horn 
narrows  to  the  sweet  waters  of  Europe,  but  broad- 
ens toward  Seraglio  Point  into  the  Bosporus,  that 
glorious  highway  of  water  between  Europe  and 
Asia,  lined  with  the  palaces  and  the  villas  of  sultans 
and  pashas,  of  Eastern  potentates  and  of  the  Euro- 
pean Powers:  Yildiz,  and  Dolma  bagtche,  Beylcr- 
bey,  and  Cheragan,  the  great  palace  of  the  Khedive 
of  Egypt's  mother,  with  its  quay  upon  the  water, 
facing  the  villa  of  her  son,  which  stands  on  the  Asian 
shore,  lifted  high  amid  its  woods,  the  palace  of  the 
"sweet  waters  of  Asia,"  the  gigantic   red-roofed 


THE   NEAR  EAST 

palace  where  Ismail  died  in  exile.  Farther  on  toward 
Therapia,  where  stand  the  summer  embassies  of  the 
Powers,  Robert  College,  dignified,  looking  from  afar 
almost  like  a  great  gray  castle,  rises  on  its  height 
above  its  sloping  gardens.  Gaze  from  any  summit 
upon  Constantinople,  and  you  are  amazed  by  the 
wonder  of  it,  by  the  wonder  of  its  setting.  There  is  a 
vastness,  a  glory  of  men,  of  ships,  of  seas,  of  moun- 
tains, in  this  grand  view  which  sets  it  apart  from  all 
other  views  of  the  world.  Two  seas  send  it  their 
message.  Two  continents  give  of  their  beauty  to 
make  it  beautiful.  Two  religions  have  striven  to 
sanctify  it  with  glorious  buildings.  In  the  midst  of 
its  hidden  squalor  and  crime  rises  what  many  con- 
sider the  most  beautiful  church — now  a  mosque — in 
the  world.  Perhaps  no  harbor  in  Europe  can  com- 
pare with  its  harbor.  For  human  and  historical 
interest  it  can  scarcely  be  equaled.  In  the  shadow  of 
its  marvelous  walls,  guarded  by  innumerable  towers 
and  girdled  by  forests  of  cypresses,  it  lies  like  some 
great  magician,  glittering,  mysterious,  crafty,  pray- 
ing, singing,  intriguing,  assassinating,  looking  to 
East  and  West,  watchful,  and  full  of  fanaticism. 

I  crossed  the  new  bridge.  The  famous  old  timl)er 
bridge,  which  rocks  under  your  feet,  has  been  moved 
up  the  Golden  Horn,  and  now  spans  the  sea  by  the 
marine  barracks.  Evening  was  falling;  a  wind  had 
brought  clouds  from  the  Black  Sea.     The  waters 

196 


IN   CONSTANTINOPLE 

were  colorless,  and  were  licked  into  fretful  wavelets, 
on  which  the  delicate  pointed  caiques  swayed  like 
leaves  on  a  tide.  Opposite  to  me,  at  the  edge  of 
Stamboul,  the  huge  Mosque  of  Yeni-Valide-Jamissi 
rose,  with  its  crowd  of  cupolas  large  and  small  and 
its  prodigious  minarets.  Although  built  by  two 
women,  it  looked  stern  and  male,  seemed  to  be 
guarding  the  bridge,  to  be  proclaiming  to  all  the 
mongrels  from  Galata  and  Pera,  who  hurried  from 
shore  to  shore,  that  Stamboul  will  make  no  compro- 
mise with  the  infidel,  that  in  the  great  space  before 
this  mosque  the  true  East  in  Europe  begins. 

Russia  was  in  the  wind,  I  thought.  The  breath  of 
the  steppes  was  wandering  afar  to  seek — what  ?  The 
breath  of  the  desert  ?  The  great  mosque  confronted 
it,  Islam  erect,  and  now  dark,  forbidding  tmder  the 
darkening  sky.  Even  the  minarets  had  lost  their 
delicate  purity,  had  become  fierce,  prayers  calling 
down  destruction  on  unbelievers.  And  all  the  cries 
of  Stamboul  seemed  to  gather  themselves  together 
in  my  ears,  keening  over  the  sea  above  which  I  stood 
— voices  of  many  nations;  of  Turks,  Arabs,  Circas- 
sians, Persians,  of  men  from  the  wilds  of  Asia  and 
the  plains  of  India;  voices  of  bashi-bazouks  and  of 
slaves;  even,  thin  high  voices  of  eunuchs.  From  the 
quays  to  right  and  left  of  the  bridge  crow^ds  of  peo- 
ple rose  to  my  sight  and  hurried  away;  to  them 
crowds  of  people  descended,  sinking  out  of  my  sight. 

197 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

Soldiers  and  hamals  passed,  upright  and  armed, 
bending  beneath  the  weight  of  incredible  loads. 
Calls  of  Albanian  boatmen  came  up  from  the  sea. 
From  the  city  of  closely  packed  fishermen's  vessels 
rose  here  and  there  little  trails  of  smoke.  On  their 
decks  dim  figures  crouched  about  wavering  fires.  A 
gnarled  beggar  pushed  me,  muttering,  then  whining 
uncouth  words.  Along  the  curving  shore,  toward 
the  cypress-crowned  height  of  Eyub,  lights  were 
strung  out,  marking  the  waterside.  Behind  me  tall 
Pera  began  to  glitter  meretriciously.  The  Greek 
barbers,  I  knew,  were  standing  impudently  before 
the  doors  of  their  little  saloons,  watching  the 
evening  pageant  as  it  surged  slowly  through  the 
Grande  Rue  and  toward  the  Taxim  Garden.  Diplo- 
mats were  driving  home  from  the  Sublime  Porte  in 
victorias.  The  ''cinemas"  were  gathering  in  their 
mobs.  Tokatlian's  was  thronged  with  Levantines 
whispering  from  mouth  to  mouth  the  current  lies  of 
the  day.  Below,  near  the  ships,  the  business  men  of 
Galata  were  rushing  out  of  their  banks,  past  the 
large  round-browed  Montenegrins  who  stand  on  the 
steps,  out  of  their  offices  and  shops,  like  a  mighty 
swarm  of  disturbed  bees.  The  long  shriek  of  a  siren 
from  a  steamer  near  Seraglio  Point  tore  the  gloom. 
I  went  on,  despite  menacing  Valide  Sultan,  I  lost 
myself  in  the  wonderful  maze  of  Stamboul. 

Stamboul  near  the  waterside  is  full  of  contrasts  so 

198 


From  a  photograph,  copyright,  by  I'liderw.j.d  &•  I'lulerwood.  N.  Y. 


THE  WATER-FRONT  Oi'^-sf:'\'N*lBOUL,  WITH   PERA 
IN  THE,  :D1STANCE 


IN   CONSTANTINOPLE 

sharp,  so  strange  that  they  bewilder  and  charm,  and 
sometimes  render  uneasy  even  one  who  has  wan- 
dered alone  through  many  towns  of  the  East.    Sor- 
did and  filthy,  there  is  yet  something  grandiose  in  it, 
something  hostile  and  threatening  in  the  watchful 
crowds  that  are  forever  passing  by.     Between  the 
houses    the    sea-wind    blows    up,    and    you    catch 
glimpses  of  water,  of  masts,  of  the  funnels  of  steam- 
ers.    Above  the  cries  of  the  nations  rise  the  long- 
drawn  wails  and  the  hootings  of  sirens.    The  traffic 
of  the  streets  is  made  more  confusing  by  your  con- 
stant consciousness  of  the  traffic  of  the  sea,  em- 
braced by  it,  almost  mingling  with  it.     Water  and 
wind,  mud  and  dust,  cries  of  coachmen  and  seamen, 
of  motor-cars  and  steamers,  and  soldiers,  soldiers, 
soldiers  passing,  always  passing.     Through  a  win- 
dow-pane you  catch  a  glitter  of  jewels  and  a  glitter 
of  Armenian  eyes  gazing  stealthily  out.     You  pass 
by  some  marble  tombs  sheltered  by  weary  trees, 
under  the  giant  shadow  of  a  mosque,  and  a  few  steps 
farther  on  you  look  through  an  arched  doorway 
and  see  on  the  marble  floor  of  a  dimly  lighted  hall 
half-naked  men,  with  tufts  of  black  hair  drooping 
from  partly  shaved  heads  and  striped  towels  girt 
round  their  loins,  going  softly  to  and  fro,  or  bending 
about  a  fountain  from  which  w^ater  gushes  with  a 
silvery  noise.    This  is  a  Turkish  bath.    Throughout 
Stamboul  there  are  bath-houses  with  little  cupolas 

20I 


THE  NEAR  EAST 

on  their  roofs,  and  throughout  Stamboul  there  are 
tombs;  but  the  uneasy  and  watchful  crowds  throng 
the  quarters  near  the  waterside  and  the  great  ba- 
zaars and  the  spaces  before  the  principal  mosques. 
They  are  not  spread  throughout  the  city.  Many 
parts  of  Stamboul  are  as  the  waste  places  of  the 
earth,  abandoned  by  men. 

By  night  they  are  silent  and  black;  by  day  they 
look  like  the  ways  of  a  great  wooden  village  from 
which  the  inhabitants  have  fled.  In  their  open 
spaces,  patches  of  waste  ground,  perhaps  a  few 
goats  are  trying  to  browse  among  rubbish  and 
stones,  a  few  little  children  are  loitering,  two  or  three 
silent  men  may  be  sitting  under  a  vine  by  a  shed, 
which  is  a  Turkish  cafe.  There  is  no  sound  of  steps 
or  of  voices.  One  has  no  feeling  of  being  in  a  great 
city,  of  being  in  a  city  at  all.  Little  there  is  of 
romance,  little  of  that  mysterious  and  exquisite 
melancholy  which  imaginative  writers  have  de- 
scribed. Dullness  and  shabbiness  brood  over  every- 
thing. Yet  an  enormous  population  lives  in  the 
apparently  empty  houses.  Women  are  watching 
from  the  windows  behind  the  grilles.  Life  is  fer- 
menting in  the  midst  of  the  dust,  the  discomfort,  the 
almost  ghastly  silence. 

The  great  bazaar  of  Stamboul  is  a  city  within  a 
city.  As  you  stand  before  its  entrance  you  think  of 
a  fortress  full  of  immured  treasures.    And  there  are 

202 


LOOKING  DOWN  STEP  STREET,  CONSTANTINOPLE 


l.)ri.;lil,    by  I'.lde 


IN   CONSTANTINOPLE 

treasures  of  price  under  the  heavy  arches,  in  the 
long  roofed-over  lanes.  The  bazaars  of  Tunis  seem' 
minute,  of  Damascus  ephemeral,  of  Cairo  dressed 
up,  of  Jerusalem  crushed  together  and  stifling,  when 
compared  with  the  vast  bazaars  of  Stamboul,  whicli 
have  a  solidity,  a  massiveness,  unshared  by  their 
rivals.  I  saw  there  many  cheap  goods  such  as  T  have 
seen  on  certain  booths  in  the  East  End  of  London,, 
but  they  were  surrounded  with  a  certain  pomp  and 
dignity,  with  a  curious  atmosphere  of  age.  Some 
parts  of  the  bazaars  are  narrow.  Others  are  broad 
and  huge,  with  great  cupolas  above  them,  and,  far 
up,  wooden  galleries  running  round  them.  Now 
and  then  you  come  upon  an  old  fountain  of  stained 
marble  and  dim  faience  about  which  men  are  squat- 
ting on  their  haunches  to  wash  their  faces  and  hands, 
and  their  carefully  bared  arms.  The  lanes  are  paved 
and  are  often  slippery.  Just  under  the  lofty  roof 
there  are  windows  of  wdiite  glass,  and  about  them, 
and  on  arches  and  walls,  there  are  crude  decorations 
in  strong  blues  and  purples,  yellows  and  greens. 
The  serious  merchants  from  many  lands  do  not 
beset  you  with  importunities  as  you  pass;  but  some- 
times a  lustrous  pair  of  eyes  invites  you  to  pause,  or 
a  dark  and  long-fingered  hand  gently  beckons  you 
toward  a  jewel,  a  prayer-carpet,  a  weapon,  or  some- 
thing strange  in  silver  or  gold  or  ivory. 

One  day  a  man  from  Bagdad  invited  me  to  buy  a 

17  %} 


THE   NEAR  EAST 

picture  as  I  drew  near  to  him.  It  was  the  portrait  of 
a  dervish's  cap  worked  in  silk.  The  cap,  orange- 
colored  and  silver,  w^as  perched  upon  a  small  table 
(in  the  picture)  above  which  hung  curtains  in  two 
shades  of  green.  A  heavy  gilt  frame  surrounded 
this  "old  master"  of  the  East.  We  bargained.  The 
merchant's  languages  were  broken,  but  at  length  I 
understood  him  to  say  that  the  cap  was  a  perfect 
likeness.  I  retorted  that  all  the  dervishes'  caps  I  had 
seen  upon  living  heads  were  the  color  of  earth.  The 
merchant,  I  believe,  pitied  my  ignorance.  His  eyes, 
hands,  arms,  and  even  his  shoulders  were  eloquent 
of  compassion.  He  lowered  the  price  of  the  picture 
by  about  half  a  farthing  in  Turkish  money,  but  I 
resisted  the  blandishment  and  escaped  into  the  jewel 
bazaar,  half  regretting  a  lost  opportunity. 

Many  Turkish  women  come  to  the  bazaars  only 
to  meet  their  lovers.  They  cover  a  secret  desire  by  a 
pretense  of  making  purchases.  From  the  upper  floor 
of  the  yellow-blue-and-red  kiosk,  in  which  Turkish 
sweets  are  sold,  and  you  can  eat  the  breasts  of  chick- 
ens cooked  deliciousl}^  in  cream  and  served  with 
milk  and  starch,  I  have  watched  these  subtle  truants 
passing  in  their  pretty  disguises  suggestive  of  a 
masked  ball.  They  look  delicate  and  graceful  in 
their  thin  and  shining  robes,  like  dominoes,  of  black 
or  sometimes  of  prune-color,  with  crape  dropping 


206 


From  a  photograph,  copyrig^ht,  by  I'liderwood  &  Underwood,  N.  Y. 


PUBIJr    r  TT^-nn  p   wpi^^kw*;   lv    ,\    rviV^'PANTiV'^i'i  k    sIRKF'I 


IN   CONSTANTINOPLE 

over  their  faces  and  letting  you  see  not  enough;  for 
many  Turkish  women  are  pretty. 

One  day  I  was  in  the  upper  room  of  a  photogra- 
pher's shop  when  two  Turkish  w^omen  came  in  and 
removed  their  veils,  standing  with  their  backs  to  the 
English  infidel.  One  was  obviously  much  younger 
than  the  other,  and  seemed  to  have  a  beautiful  fig- 
ure. I  was  gazing  at  it,  perhaps  rather  steadily, 
when,  evidently  aware  of  my  glance,  she  turned 
slowly  and  deliberately  round.  For  two  or  three 
minutes  she  faced  me,  looking  to  right  and  left  of 
me,  above  me,  even  on  the  floor  near  my  feet,  with 
her  large  and  beautiful  blue-gray  eyes.  She  was 
lovely.  Young,  perhaps  eighteen,  she  was  slightly 
painted,  and  her  eyebrows  and  long  curling  lashes 
were  blackened.  Her  features  were  perfect,  her 
complexion  was  smooth  and  brilliant,  and  her  ex- 
pression was  really  adorable.  It  seemed  to  say  to 
me  quietly: 

"Yes,  you  are  right.  It  is  foolish  ever  to  conceal 
such  a  face  as  this  with  a  veil  when  really  there  is  not 
too  much  beauty  in  the  world.  Mais  que  voulez- 
vous?  Les  Turcs!"  And  the  little  hanum  surely 
moved  her  thin  shoulders  contemptuously.  But 
her  elderly  companion  pulled  at  her  robe,  and  slowly 
she  moved  away.  As  the  two  women  left  the  room, 
the  photographer,  a  Greek,  looked  after  them,  smil- 
ing.    Then  he  turned  to  me,  spread  out  his  thin 

209 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

hands,  and  said,  with  a  shrug,  "Encore  des  desen- 
chantees!" 

I  thought  of  the  disenchanted  one  day  as  I  sat 
among  the  letter-writers  in  the  large  and  roughly 
paved  court  of  the  ''Pigeon's  Mosque,"  or  Mosque  of 
Bajazet  II.  For  hours  I  had  been  wandering  on  foot 
through  the  upper  quarters  of  old  Stamboul,  and  I 
could  not  release  my  mind  from  the  dull  pressure  of 
its  influence.  All  those  wooden  houses,  silent,  ap- 
parently abandoned,  shuttered — streets  and  streets 
of  them,  myriads  of  them !  Now  and  then  above  the 
carved  wood  of  a  lattice  I  had  seen  a  striped  curtain, 
cheap,  dusty,  hanging,  I  guessed,  above  a  cheap  and 
dusty  divan.  The  doors  of  the  houses  were  large 
and  solid,  like  prison  doors.  Before  one,  as  I  slowly 
passed  by,  I  had  seen  an  old  Turk  in  a  long  quilted 
coat  of  green,  with  a  huge  key  in  his  hand,  about  to 
enter.  He  glanced  to  right  and  left,  then  thrust  the 
key  into  the  door.  I  had  felt  inclined  to  stop  and  say 
to  him: 

"That  house  has  been  abandoned  for  years.  Every 
one  has  migrated  long  ago  from  this  quarter  of 
Stamboul.  If  you  stay  here,  you  will  be  quite  alone." 
But  the  old  Turk  knew  very  well  that  all  the  houses 
were  full  of  people,  of  imprisoned  women.  What  a 
fate  to  be  one  of  the  prisoners! 

That  was  my  thought  as  I  looked  at  the  sacred 
pigeons,  circling  in  happy  freedom  over  the  garden 

2IO 


IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

where  Bajazet  slumbers  under  his  catafalque,  flut- 
tering round  the  cupolas  of  their  mosque,  and  be- 
neath the  gray-pink-and-white  arcade,  with  its 
dull-green  and  plum-colored  columns,  or  crowding 
together  upon  the  thin  branches  of  their  plane-tree. 
A  pure  wind  blew  through  the  court  and  about  the 
marble  fountain.  The  music  made  by  the  iridescent 
wings  of  the  birds  never  ceased,  and  their  perpetual 
cooing  was  like  the  sweet  voice  of  content.  The  sun- 
shine streamed  over  the  pavement  and  penetrated 
under  the  arches,  making  the  coral  beads  of  a  rosary 
glow  and  its  gold  beads  glitter,  giving  to  the  amber 
liquid  carried  on  a  tray  by  a  boy  to  a  barber  beneath 
his  awning  a  vivacity  almost  of  flame.  Beside  me  a 
lover  was  dictating  a  letter  to  a  scribe,  who  squatted 
before  his  table,  on  which  were  arranged  a  bright- 
blue  inkstand  and  cup,  a  pile  of  white  paper,  and  a 
stand  with  red  pens  and  blue  pencils.  Farther  on, 
men  were  being  shaved,  and  were  drinking  coffee  as 
they  lounged  upon  bright-yellow  sofas.  Near  me  a 
very  old  Turk,  with  fanatical,  half-shut  eyes,  was 
sitting  on  the  ground  and  gazing  at  the  pink  feet  of 
the  pigeons  as  they  tripped  over  the  pavement,  upon 
which  a  pilgrim  to  the  mosque  had  just  flung  some 
grain.  As  he  gazed,  he  mechanically  fingered  his 
rosary,  swiftly  shifting  the  beads  on  and  on,  beads 
after  beads,  always  two  at  a  time.  Some  incense 
smoldered  in  a  three-legged  brazier,  giving  out  its 

2  I  I 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

peculiar  and  drowsy  smell.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
court  a  fruit-seller  slept  by  a  pile  of  yellow  melons. 
The  grain  thrown  by  the  pilgrim  was  all  eaten  now, 
and  for  a  moment  the  sunshine  was  dimmed  by  the 
cloud  of  rising  and  dispersing  birds,  gray  and  green, 
with  soft  gleams  like  jewels  entangled  in  their  plum- 
age. Some  flew  far  to  the  tall  white-and-gray 
minaret  of  their  mosque,  others  settled  on  the  cupola 
above  the  fountain.  A  few,  venturous  truants,  dis- 
appeared in  the  direction  of  the  seraskierat  wall,  not 
far  off.  The  greater  number  returned  to  their  plane- 
tree  on  the  right  of  the  lover  and  the  scribe.  And  as 
the  lover  suggested,  and  the  scribe  wrote  from  right 
to  left,  the  pigeons  puffed  out  their  breasts  and 
cooed,  calling  other  pilgrims  to  remember  that  even 
the  sacred  have  their  carnal  appetites,  and  to  honor 
the  poor  widow's  memory  before  going  up  to  the 
mosque  to  pray. 

One  day  I  went  up  the  hill  toward  Yildiz  to  see  the 
Selamlik.  That  morning  the  sultan  was  going  to 
pray  in  the  mosque  of  wood  which  Abdul  Hamid 
built  close  to  the  mysterious,  walled-in  quarter  of 
palaces,  harems,  kiosks,  gardens,  barracks,  and 
parks  which  he  made  his  prison.  From  the  Bosporus 
you  can  see  it  extending  from  the  hilltop  almost  to 
the  sea,  a  great  property,  outside  the  city,  yet  domi- 
nating it,  with  dense  groves  of  trees  in  which. wild 
animals  were  kept,  with  open  spaces,  with  solitary 

2  12 


THE  COURTYARD  OF  THE  "PIGEQN'S  MOSQUE" 


-jilyncr.: 


<.■: 


><^ 
".V- 


^\^*-: 


IN   CONSTANTINOPLE 

buildings  and  lines  of  roofs,  and  the  cupola  of  the 
mosque  ot  the  soldiers.  All  about  it  are  the  high 
walls  which  a  coward  raised  up  to  protect  him  and 
his  fear.  The  mosque  is  below  the  great  entrance- 
gates  on  a  steep  hillside  beyond  the  walls.  A  large 
modern  house,  white,  with  green  shutters,  in  which 
Abdul  Hamid  used  to  grant  audiences  and,  I  believe, 
to  give  banquets,  looks  down  on  it.  From  the  upper 
windows  of  this  dwelling  the  Turks  say  the  ex-sul- 
tan often  stared  at  his  city  through  powerful  glasses. 
The  mosque  is  not  large.  It  is  yellow  and  white, 
with  a  minaret  of  plaster  on  the  side  next  the  sea, 
and  a  graveled  courtyard  surrounded  by  green  iron 
railings  and  planted  with  a  few  trees.  On  the  side 
next  to  Yildiz  is  a  steep  bank.  A  road  runs  up  the 
hill  to  the  left  of  the  mosque  as  you  face  Yildiz,  and 
another  hidden  road  descends  from  the  gates  and 
gives  access  to  the  courtyard  behind  the  mosque. 
The  sultan  has  therefore  a  choice  of  two  routes,  and 
nobody  seems  to  know  beforehand  which  way  he 
will  come.  There  were  very  few  tourists  in  Constan- 
tinople when  I  was  there.  People  were  afraid  of 
war,  and  before  I  left  the  Orient  express  had  ceased 
to  run.  But  I  found  awaiting  the  padishah  many 
Indian  pilgrims,  a  large  troop  of  pilgrims  from 
Trebizond  who  were  on  their  way  to  Mecca,  several 
Persians  wearing  black  toques,  and  a  good  many 
Turks.     These  were  in  the  courtyard  close  to  the 

215 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

mosque,  where  I  was  allowed  to  stand  by  the  aris- 
tocratic young-  chief  of  police,  who  wore  a  woolly,, 
gray,  fez-shaped  cap.  Outside  the  railings  stood  a 
dense  crowc}  of  veiled  women. 

Soon  after  I  arrived  a  squadron  of  the  body-guard 
rode  up  from  the  city,  carrying  red-and-green  pen- 
nons on  long  staffs,  and  halted  before  the  gates  of 
the  palace.  And  almost  at  the  same  moment  the 
palace  musicians,  in  dark-blue,  red,  and  gold,  wear- 
ing short  swords,  and  carrying  shining  brass  instru- 
ments, marched  into  the  inclosure.  They  stood  still, 
then  dropped  their  instruments  on  the  ground, 
moved  away,  and  sat  down  on  the  bank,  lolling  in 
easy  attitudes.  Time  slipped  by,  and  important 
people  strolled  in,  officers,  court  officials,  attendants. 
Eunuchs  shambled  loosely  past  in  wonderfully  fit- 
ting, long  frock-coats,  wearing  turquoise  rings  on 
their  large  weak  hands,  and  looking  half-piteously 
impudent.  Men  hurried  into  the  mosque  carrying 
brown  Gladstone  bags.  Nazim  Pasha,  weary  and 
grave,  the  weight  of  war  already  on  his  shoulders, 
talked  with  the  master  of  the  ceremonies  beside 
some  steps  before  which  lay  a  bright-yellow  carpet. 

This  is  the  sultan's  entrance  to  the  mosque.  It  is 
not  imposing.  The  two  flights  of  steps  curve  on 
right  and  left  to  a  trivial  glass  porch  which  reminded 
me  of  that  bulbous  addition  to  certain  pretentious 
houses  which  is  dignified  by  the  name  '^winter  gar- 

2l6 


IN   CONSTANTINOPLE 

den."  Some  smart,  very  strong  Turkish  sailors 
lined  up  opposite  me.  Not  far  from  the  porch  stood 
a  gTOUp  of  military  doctors  in  somber  uniforms.  A 
second  yellow  carpet  was  unrolled  to  cover  the  flight 
of  steps  on  the  left  of  the  porch,  more  eunuchs  went 
by,  more  Gladstone  bags  were  carried  past  me. 
Then  came  soldiers  in  yellowish  brown,  and  palace 
officials  in  white  and  blue,  with  red  collars.  Two 
riding-horses  were  led  by  two  grooms  toward  the 
back  of  the  mosque.  The  musicians  rose  languidly 
from  the  bank,  took  up  their  instruments,  turned 
round,  and  faced  toward  Yildiz.  Through  the 
crowd,  like  a  wind,  went  that  curious  stir  which  al- 
ways precedes  an  important  event  for  which  many 
people  are  waiting.  Nazim  Pasha  spoke  to  the  chief 
of  police,  slowly  moving  his  white-gloved  hands, 
and  then  from  the  hilltop  came  a  rhythmical,  boom- 
ing noise  of  men's  voices,  very  deep,  very  male:  the 
soldiers  before  the  gates  were  acclaiming  their  sov- 
ereign. I  saw  a  fluttering  movement  of  pennons; 
the  sultan  had  emerged  from  the  palace  and  was 
descending  by  the  hidden  road  to  perform  his  devo- 
tions. 

In  perhaps  five  minutes  an  outrider  appeared  from 
behind  the  mosque,  advancing  slowly  parallel  with 
the  bank,  followed  by  a  magnificent  victoria,  cov- 
ered with  gold  and  lined,  I  think,  with  satin,  drawn 
by  two  enormous  brown  horses  the  harness  of  which 

18  217 


THE   NEAR    EAST 

was  plated  with  gold.  They  were  driven  from  the 
box  by  a  gorgeous  coachman,  who  was  standing. 
The  musicians,  turning  once  more,  struck  up  the 
''Sultan's  Hymn,"  the  soldiers  presented. arms;  the 
brown  horses  wheeled  slowly  round,  a,nd  I  saw 
within  a  few  paces  of  me,  sitting  alone  in  the  victoria 
in  a  curious,  spread-out  attitude,  a  bulky  and  weary 
old  man  in  a  blue  uniform,  wearing  white  kid  gloves 
and  the  fez.  He  was  staring  straight  before  him, 
and  on  his  unusually  large  fair  face  there  was  no 
more  expression  than  there  is  on  a  white  envelop. 
Women  twittered.  Men  saluted.  The  victoria 
stopped  beside  the  bright-yellow  carpet.  After  a 
moment's  pause,  as  if  emerging  from  a  sort  of 
trance,  the  Calif  of  Islam  got  up  and  stepped  slowly 
and  heavily  out,  raising  one  hand  to  his  fez.  Then, 
as  if  with  an  abrupt  effort  to  show  alertness,  he 
walked  almost  quTckly  up  the  steps  to  the  glass 
porch,  turned  just  before  entering  it,  stood  for  an 
mstant  looking  absolutely  blank,  again  saluted, 
swung  round  awkwardly,  and  disappeared.  Almost 
immediately  afterward  one  of  his  sons,  a  rather 
short  and  fair  young  man  with  a  flushed  face,  at- 
tended by  an  officer,  hurried  past  me  and  into  the 
mosque  by  another  entrance. 

A  few  persons  went  away  while  his  Majesty  was 
praying;  but  all  the  pilgrims  stayed,  and  I  stayed 
with  them.    Several  of  the  officials  walked  about  on 

2l8 


IN  CONSTANTINOPLE 

the  gravel,  talked,  smoked,  and  drank  orangeade, 
which  a  servant  brought  to  them  on  a  silver  tray. 
Now  and  then  from  within  the  mosque  came  to  us 
the  loud  murmur  of  praying  voices.  The  soldiers  of 
the  body-guard  descended  the  hill  from  the  gates  of 
Yildiz  on  foot,  leading  their  horses,  and  assembled 
outside  the  courtyard.  They  were  followed  by  a 
brilliant  squadron  of  cavalry  in  dark-blue-and-red 
uniforms,  with  green-and-red  saddle-cloths;  their 
blood-red  flag  was  borne  before  them,  and  their  own 
music  accompanied  them.  The  soldiers  in  yellowish 
brown  had  piled  arms  and  were  standing  at  ease, 
smoking  and  talking.  Twenty  minutes  perhaps 
went  by,  then  a  Gladstone  bag  was  carried  out  of  the 
mosque.  We  all  gazed  at  it  with  reverence.  What 
was  in  it?  Or,  if  there  was  nothing,  what  had  been 
recently  taken  out  of  it  ?  I  never  shall  know.  As  the 
bag  vanished,  a  loud  sound  of  singing  came  from 
within,  and  a  troop  of  palace  guards  in  vivid-red 
uniforms,  with  white-and-red  toques  trimmed  with 
black  astrakhan,  marched  into  the  court  led  by  an 
officer.  Some  gendarmes  followed  them.  Then  the 
chief  of  police  tripped  forward  with  nervous  agility, 
and  made  us  all  cross  over  and  stand  with  our  backs 
to  the  bank  in  a  long  line.  An  outrider,  dressed  in 
green  and  gold,  and  holding  a  l)ig  whip,  rode  in  on 
a  huge  strawberry-roan  horse.  Behind  him  came 
a   green-and-red    brougham    with    satin    cushions, 

219 


THE   NEAR  EAST 

drawn  by  a  pair  of  strawberry  roans.  A  smart 
coachman  and  footman  sat  on  the  box,  and  on  each 
side  rode  two  officers  on  white  horses. 

Now  the  singing-  ceased  in  the  mosque.  People 
began  to  come  out.  The  sultan's  son,  less  flushed, 
passed  by  on  foot,  answering  swiftly  the  salutes  of 
the  people.  The  brougham  was  drawn  up  before  the 
bright-yellow  carpet.  Nazim  Pasha  once  more  stood 
there  talking  with  several  officials.  The  soldiers  had 
picked  up  their  arms,  the  sailors  were  standing  at 
attention. 

Then  there  was  a  very  long  wait. 

''The  sultan  is  taking  coffee." 

Another  five  minutes  passed. 

''The  sultan  is  sleeping." 

On  this  announcement  being  made  to  me,  I 
thought  seriously  of  departing  in  peace;  but  a  Greek 
friend,  who  had  spoken  to  an  official,  murmured  in 
my  ear: 

"The  sultan  is  awake  and  is  changing  his  clothes." 

This  sounded  promising,  and  I  decided  to  wait. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  his  Majesty  was  a  very  long 
time  at  his  toilet;  but  at  last  we  were  rewarded. 
Abruptly  from  the  glass  porch  he  appeared  in  Euro- 
pean dress,  with  very  baggy  trousers  much  too  long 
in  the  leg  and  a  voluminous  black  frock-coat.  He 
stood  for  a  moment  holding  the  frock-coat  with 
both  hands,  as  if  wishing  to  wrap  himself  up  in  it. 

220 


STREET  SCENE  JN   CONSTANTINOPLE 


From  a  phrito(,'rn|)li,  copyri ylit.  by  Uiulerwood  &  UiKittwood,  N.  Y. 


IN   CONSTANTINOPLE 

Then,  still  grasping  it,  he  walked  quickly  down  the 
steps,  his  legs  seeming  almost   to   ripple  beneath 
the  weight  of  his  body,  and  stepped  heavily  into  the 
brougham,   wdiich   swung  upon   its   springs.     The 
horses  moved,  the  carriage  passed  close  to  me,  and 
again  I  gazed  at  this  mighty  sovereign,  while  the 
Eastern  pilgrims  salaamed  to  the  ground.    Mechan- 
ically  he   saluted.      His   large   face   w^as    still    un- 
naturally blank,  and  yet  somehow  it  looked  kind. 
And  I  felt  that  this  old  man  w^as  weary  and  sad,  that 
his  long  years  of  imprisonment  had  robbed  him  of  all 
vitality,  of  all  power  to  enjoy;  that  he  was  unable  to 
appreciate  the  pageant  of  life  in  which  now,  by  the 
irony  of  fate,  he  was  called  to  play  the  central  part. 
All  alone  he  sat  in  the  bright-colored  brougham,  car- 
rying a  flaccid  hand  to  his  fez  and  gazing  blankly 
before  him.    The  carriage  passed  out  of  the  court- 
yard, but  it  did  not  go  up  the  hill  to  the  palace. 

''The  sultan,"  said  a  voice,  ''is  going  out  into  the 
country  to  rest  and  to  divert  himself." 

To  rest,  perhaps;  but  to  divert  himself! 

After  that  day  I  often  saw  before  me  a  large  white 
envelop,  and  the  most  expressive  people  in  the  world 
were  salaaming  before  it. 


223 


STAMBOUL,  THE  CITY  OF  MOSQUES 


THE  MOSQUE  OF  THE  YENI-VALIDE-JAMISSI, 
CONSTANTINOPLE 


Chapter  VI 
STAMBOUL,  THE  CITY  OF  MOSQUES 

STAMBOUL  is  wonderfully  various.  Com- 
pressed between  two  seas,  it  contains  sharp, 
even  brutal  contrasts:  of  beauty  and  ugliness, 
grandeur  and  squalor,  purity  and  filth,  silence  and 
uproar,  the  most  delicate  fascination  and  a  fierce- 
ness that  is  barbaric.  It  can  give  you  peace  or  a 
sw^ord.  The  sword  is  sharp  and  cruel;  the  peace  is 
profound  and  exquisite. 

Every  day  early  I  escaped  from  the  uproar  of  Pera 
and  sought  in  Stamboul  a  place  of  forgetfulness. 
There  are  many  such  places  in  the  city  and  on  its 
outskirts:  the  mosques,  the  little  courts  and  gardens 
of  historic  tombs;  the  strange  and  forgotten  Byzan- 
tine churches,  lost  in  the  maze  of  wooden  houses;  the 
cemeteries  vast  and  melancholy,  where  the  dead 
sleep  in  the  midst  of  dust  and  confusion,  guarded  by 
giant  cypresses;  the  lonely  and  shadowed  ways  by 
the  walls  and  the  towers;  the  poetic  glades  and  the 
sun-kissed  terraces  of  Seraglio  Point. 

Santa  Sophia  stands  apart  from  all  other  build- 

22Q 

19  ^ 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

ings,  unique  in  beauty,  with  the  faint  face  of  the 
Christ  still  visible  on  its  wall;  Christian  in  soul 
though  now  for  so  long  dedicated  to  the  glory  of 
Allah  and  of  his  prophet.  I  shall  not  easily  forget 
my  disappointment  when  I  stood  for  the  first  time  in 
its  shadow.  I  had  been  on  Seraglio  Point,  and, 
strolling  by  the  famous  Royal  Gate  to  look  at  the 
lovely  fountain  of  Sultan  Ahmed,  I  saw  an  enor- 
mous and  ugly  building  decorated  with  huge  stripes 
of  red  paint,  towering  above  me  as  if  fain  to  obscure 
the  sun.  The  immensity  of  it  was  startling.  I  asked 
its  name. 

''Santa  Sophia." 

I  looked  away  to  the  fountain,  letting  my  eyes 
dwell  on  its  projecting  roof  and  its  fretwork  of  gold, 
its  lustrous  blue  and  green  tiles,  splendid  ironwork, 
and  plaques  of  gray  and  brown  marble. 

It  was  delicate  and  enticing.  Its  mighty  neighbor 
was  almost  repellent.  But  at  length — not  without 
reluctance,  for  I  feared  perhaps  a  deeper  disappoint- 
ment— I  went  into  the  mosque  by  the  Porta  Basilica, 
and  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  harmony,  so 
wonderful,  so  penetrating,  so  calm,  that  I  was  con- 
scious at  once  of  a  perfect  satisfaction. 

At  first  this  happy  sense  of  being  completely  satis- 
fied seemed  shed  upon  me  by  shaped  space.  In  no 
other  building  have  I  had  this  exact  feeling,  that 
space  had  surely  taken  an  inevitable  form  and  was 

230 


I'HE   ROYAL  GATE  LEADING  TP,  THE  OLD   SERAGLIO 


»  -  ^ 


A-'-a- 


STAMBOUL,  THE   CITY   OF    MOSQUES 

announcing  itself  to  me.  I  stood  beneath  the  great 
dome,  one  hundred  and  seventy-nine  feet  in  height, 
and  as  I  gazed  upward  I  felt  both  possessed  and  re- 
leased. 

For  a  long  time  I  was  fully  aware  of  nothing  but 
the  vast  harmony  of  Santa  Sophia,  descending  upon 
me,  wrapping  me  round.  I  saw  moving  figures,  tiny, 
yet  full  of  meaning,  passing  in  luminous  distances, 
pausing,  bending,  kneeling;  a  ray  of  light  falling 
upon  a  white  turban;  an  Arab  in  a  long  pink  robe 
leaning  against  a  column  of  dusky  red  porphyry;  a 
dove  circling  under  the  dome  as  if  under  the  sky. 
But  I  could  not  be  strongly  conscious  of  any  detail, 
or  be  enchanted  by  any  separate  beauty.  I  was  in 
the  grasp  of  the  perfect  whole. 

The  voice  of  a  child  disturbed  me. 

Somewhere  far  off  in  the  mosque  a  child  began  to 
sing  a  great  tune,  powerfully,  fervently,  but  boy- 
ishly. The  voice  was  not  a  treble  voice;  it  was 
deeper,  yet  unmistakably  the  voice  of  a  boy.  And 
the  melody  sung  was  bold,  indeed  almost  angry,  and 
yet  definitely  religious.  It  echoed  along  the  walls 
of  marble,  which  seemed  to  multiply  it  mysteriously, 
adding  to  it  wide  murmurs  which  were  carried 
through  all  the  building,  into  the  dimmest,  remotest 
recesses.  It  became  in  my  ears  as  the  deep-toned 
and  fanatical  thunder  of  Islam,  proclaiming  posses- 
sion of  the  church  of  Divine  Wisdom  which  had  been 

233 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

dedicated  to  Christ.  It  put  me  for  a  time  definitely 
outside  of  the  vast  harmony.  I  was  able  at  last  to 
notice  details  both  architectural  and  human. 

Santa  Sophia  has  nine  gates  leading  to  it  from  a 
great  corridor  or  outer  hall,  lined  with  marble  and 
roofed  with  old-gold  mosaic.  As  you  enter  from  the 
Porta  Basilica  you  have  an  impression  of  pale  yel- 
low, gold,  and  gray;  of  a  pervading  silvery  glimmer, 
of  a  pervading  glean,  of  delicate  primrose,  brightly 
pure  and  warm.  You  hear  a  sound  of  the  falling  of 
water  from  the  two  fountains  of  ablution,  great 
vases  of  gray  marble  which  are  just  within  the 
mosque. 

Gray  and  gold  prevail  in  the  color  scheme,  a  beau- 
tiful combination  of  which  the  eyes  are  never  tired. 
But  many  hues  are  mingled  with  them:  yellow  and 
black,  deep  plum-color  and  red,  green,  brown,  and 
very  dark  blue.  The  windows,  which  are  heavily 
grated,  have  no  painted  glass,  so  the  mosque  is  not 
dark.  It  has  a  sort  of  lovely  and  delicate  dimness, 
touching  as  the  dimness  of  twilight.  It  is  divinely 
calm,  almost  as  Nature  can  be  when  she  would  bring 
her  healing  to  the  unquiet  human  spirit.  We  know 
that  during  the  recent  war  Santa  Sophia  was 
crowded  with  suffering  fugitives,  with  dying  sol- 
diers and  cholera  patients.  I  feel  that  even  upon 
them  in  their  agony  it  must  have  shed  rays  of  com- 
fort, into  their  hearts  a  belief  in  a  far-off  compassion 

234 


STAMBOUL,  THE   CITY  OF   MOSQUES 

waiting-  the  appointed  time  to  make  itself  fully 
manifest. 

The  great  dome  is  of  gold,  and  of  either  black  or 
very  deep  blue.  Myriads  of  chandeliers,  holding 
tiny  glass  cups,  hang  from  the  roof.  Pale  yellow 
matting  covers  the  plain  of  the  floor.  The  silvery 
glimmer  comes  from  the  thousands  of  cups,  the 
primrose  gleam  from  the  matting.  The  walls  are 
lined  with  slabs  of  exquisite  marble  of  many  pat- 
terns and  colors.  Gold  mosaic  decorates  the  roof 
and  the  domes.  Galleries,  supported  by  marble 
arcades,  and  leaning  on  roofs  of  dim  gold,  run  round 
a  great  part  of  the  mosque;  which  is  subtly  broken 
up,  and  made  mysterious,  enticing,  and  various  by 
curved  recesses  of  marble,  by  innumerable  arches, 
some  large  and  heavy,  some  fragile  and  delicate,  by 
screens,  and  by  forests  of  columns.  Two-storied 
aisles  flank  the  vast  nave,  through  which  men  wan- 
der looking  almost  like  little  dolls.  So  huge  is  the 
mosque  that  the  eyes  are  deceived  within  it,  and  can 
no  longer  measure  heights  or  breadths  with  ac- 
curacy. When  I  first  stood  in  the  nave  I  thought 
the  chandeliers  were  hanging  so  near  to  the  ground 
that  it  must  be  dangerous  for  a  tall  man  to  try  to 
pass  underneath  them.  They  are,  of  course,  really 
far  higher  than  the  head  of  a  giant. 

In  Santa  Sophia  intricacy,  by  some  magical  pro- 
cess of  genius,  results  in  simplicity.     Everything 

235 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

seems  gently  but  irresistibly  compelled  to  become  a 
minister  to  the  beauty  and  the  calmness  of  the 
whole:  the  arcades  of  gray  marble  and  gold;  the 
sacred  mosaics  of  Holy  Mary,  and  of  the  six-winged 
Seraphim,  which  still  testify  to  another  age  and  an- 
other religion;  the  red  columns  of  porphyry  from 
Baalbec's  Temple  of  the  Sun;  the  Ephesus  columns 
of  verde  antico;  the  carved  capitals  and  the  bases  of 
shining  brass;  the  gold  and  gray  pulpit,  with  its  long 
staircase  of  marble  closed  by  a  gold  and  green  cur- 
tain, and  its  two  miraculously  beautiful  flags  of 
pearly  green  and  faint  gold,  by  age  made  more  won- 
derful than  when  they  first  flew  on  the  battle-field, 
or  were  carried  in  sacred  processions;  the  ancient 
prayer-rugs  fixed  to  the  walls;  the  Sultanas  box,  a 
sort  of  long  gallery,  ending  in  a  kiosk  with  a  gilded 
grille,  and  raised  upon  marble  pillars;  the  great 
doors  and  the  curtains  of  dull  red  wool;  the  piled 
carpets  that  are  ready  against  the  winter,  when  the 
cool  yellow  matting  is  covered  up;  the  great  green 
shields  in  the  pendentives,  bearing  their  golden 
names  of  God  and  his  prophet,  of  Ali,  Osman,  Omar, 
and  Abu-Bekr.  Everything  slips  into  the  heart  of 
the  great  harmony,  however  precious,  however  sim- 
ple, even  however  crude.  There  are  a  few  ugly 
things  in  Santa  Sophia:  whitewash  covering  mo- 
saics, stains  of  fierce  yellow,  blotches  of  plaster 
which  should  be  removed.    They  do  not  really  mat- 

236 


/sf^^ 


THE   MOSQUE  OF  SANTA  SOPHIA 


STAMBOUL,  THE   CITY  OF   MOSQUES 

ter;  one  cannot  heed  them  when  one  is  immersed  in 
such  almost  mysterious  beauty. 

Men  and  birds  are  at  ease  in  Santa  Sophia.  Doves 
have  made  their  home  in  the  holy  place.  They  fly 
under  the  long  arcades,  they  circle  above  the  gal- 
leries, they  rest  against  blocks  of  cool  marble  the 
color  of  which  their  plumage  resembles.  And  all 
day  long  men  pass  in  through  the  gateways,  and 
become  at  once  little,  yet  strangely  significant  in  the 
vastness  which  incloses  and  liberates  them.  They 
take  off  their  shoes  and  carry  them,  or  lay  them 
down  in  the  wooden  trays  at  the  edges  of  those  wide, 
railed-in  platforms  covered  with  matting,  called 
masbata,  which  are  characteristic  of  mosques,  and 
which  are  supposed  to  be  for  the  use  of  readers  of  the 
Koran.  Then  they  are  free  of  the  mosque.  Some  of 
them  wander  from  place  to  place  silently  gazing; 
others  kneel  and  pray  in  some  quiet  corner;  others 
study,  or  sing,  or  gossip,  or  sink  into  reverie  or  slum- 
ber. Many  go  up  to  the  masbata,  take  off  their  outer 
garments  and  hang  them  over  the  rails,  hang  their 
handkerchiefs  beside  them,  tuck  their  legs  under 
their  bodies,  and  remain  thus  for  hours,  staring 
straight  before  them  with  solemn  eyes  as  if  hyp- 
notized. Children,  too,  go  to  the  masbata,  settle 
cozily  down  and  read  the  Koran  aloud,  interspersing 
their  study  with  gay  conversation.  On  one  of  them 
I  found  my  singing  boy.    Small,  fanatical,  with  head 

239 


THE   NEAR  EAST 

thrown  back  and  the  fez  upon  it,  he  defiantly  poured 
forth  his  tune,  while  an  older  companion,  opposite 
to  him  and  looking  not  unlike  an  idol  in  its  shrine, 
stared  impassively  as  if  at  the  voice. 

Santa  Sophia  is  mystical  in  its  twilight  beauty. 
Its  vastness,  its  shape,  its  arrangement,  its  beauti- 
fully blended  colors,  the  effects  of  light  and  of  sound 
within  it,  unite  in  creating  an  atmosphere  that  dis- 
poses the  mind  to  reverie  and  inclines  the  soul  to 
prayer.  Along  the  exquisite  marble  walls,  in  the 
mellow  dimness,  while  Stamboul  just  outside  is  buy- 
ing and  selling,  is  giving  itself  to  love  and  to  crime, 
the  murmur  of  Islam's  devotion  steals  almost  per- 
petually, mysterious  as  some  faint  and  wide-spread 
sound  of  Nature.  The  great  mosque  seems  to  be 
breathing  out  its  message  to  the  Almighty,  and  an- 
other message — to  man.  The  echoes  are  not  clear, 
but  dim  as  the  twilight  under  the  arches  of  marble 
and  beneath  the  ceilings  of  gold.  They  mingle  with- 
out confusion  in  a  touching  harmony,  as  all  things 
mingle  in  this  mosque  of  the  great  repose. 

And  yet  not  all  things! 

One  day  I  saw  standing  alone  in  the  emperor's 
doorway  a  child  in  blood-colored  rags.  The  muezzin 
had  called  from  the  minaret  the  summons  to  the 
midday  prayer,  and  far  off  before  the  mihrab,  and 
the  sacred  carpet  on  which  the  prophet  is  said  to 
have  knelt,  the  faithful  were  ranged  in  long  lines: 

240 


IN  THE  CEMETERY  OF  EYUB,  ON  THE  GOLDEN  HORN 


STAMBOUL,  THE   CITY  OF   MOSQUES 

pilgrims  on  the  way  to  Mecca;  Turks  in  quilted  coats 
and  in  European  dress;  two  dervishes  with  small, 
supple  limbs  and  pale  faces  smoldering  with  reverie; 
and  some  hard-bitten,  sun-scorched  soldiers,  per- 
haps bound  for  the  battle-fields  of  the  Balkan  War. 
Moving  almost  as  one  man  they  bent,  they  kneeled, 
they  touched  the  floor  with  their  foreheads,  leaned 
back  and  again  bowed  down.  Their  deep  and 
monotonous  voices  were  very  persistent  in  prayer. 
And  the  echoes,  like  secret  messengers,  bore  the 
sound  along  the  arcades,  carried  it  up  into  the  vast 
space  of  the  dome,  under  the  transverse  arches  and 
the  vaulted  openings  of  the  aisles,  past  the  faint 
Christ  on  the  wall,  and  the  ''Hand  of  the  Con- 
queror," with  horrible  outspread  fingers,  the  Sweat- 
ing Column,  and  the  Cradle  of  Jesus,  to  the  child  in 
the  blood-red  rags.  He  stood  there  where  Theophi- 
lus  entered,  under  the  hidden  words,  ''I  am  the  Light 
of  the  World,"  gazing,  listening,  unconscious  of  the 
marvelous  effect  his  little  figure  was  making,  the  one 
absolutely  detached  thing  in  the  mosque.  The  doves 
flew  over  his  head,  vanishing  down  the  marble  vis- 
tas, becoming  black  against  golden  distances.  The 
murmur  of  worship  increased  in  power,  as  more  and 
more  of  the  faithful  stole  in,  shoeless,  to  join  the 
ranks  before  the  mihrab.  Like  incense  from  a 
thurible,  mysticism  floated  through  every  part  of 
the  mosque,  seeming  to  make  the  vast  harmony 

243 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

softer,  to  involve  in  it  all  that  was  motionless  there 
and  all  that  was  moving,  except  the  child  in  the  em- 
peror's doorway,  who  was  unconsciously  defiant, 
like  a  patch  of  fresh  blood  on  a  pure  white  garment. 
The  prayers  at  last  died  away,  the  echoes  withdrew 
into  silence.  But  the  child  remained  where  he  was, 
crude,  almost  sinister  in  his  wonderful  colored  rags. 
Close  to  Santa  Sophia  in  the  Seraglio  grounds  is 
the  old  Byzantine  Church  of  Saint  Irene,  now 
painted  an  ugly  pink,  and  used  by  the  Turks  as  an 
armory  and  museum.  It  contains  many  spoils  taken 
by  the  Turks  in  battle,  which  are  carefully  arranged 
upon  tables  and  walls.  Nothing  is  disdained,  noth- 
ing is  considered  too  paltry  for  exhibition.  I  saw 
there  flags  riddled  with  bullets;  but  I  saw  also  odd 
boots  taken  from  Italian  soldiers  in  Tripoli;  caps, 
belts,  water-bottles,  blood-stained  tunics  and  cloaks, 
saddles,  weapons,  and  buttons.  Among  relics  from 
Yildiz  Kiosk  was  a  set  of  furniture  which  once 
belonged  to  Abdul  Hamid,  and  which  he  is  said  to 
have  set  much  store  by.  It  shows  a  very  distinctive, 
indeed  a  somewhat  original  taste,  being  made  of  red 
plush  and  weapons.  The  legs  of  the  tables  and 
chairs  are  guns  and  revolvers.  As  I  looked  at  the 
chairs  I  could  not  help  wondering  whether  ambassa- 
dors were  invited  to  sit  in  them,  after  they  had  been 
loaded  to  their  muzzles,  or  whether  they  were  re- 
served for  subjects  whom  the  ex-Sultan  suspected 

244 


I  <S;  I'nderwood,  N.  V. 


INTERIOR   OF  SANTA  SOPHIA 


STAMBOUL,  THE   CITY   OF   MOSQUES 

of  treachery.  Near  them  were  several  of  Abdul 
Hamid's  favorite  walking-sticks  containing  revol- 
vers, a  cane  with  an  electric  light  let  into  the  knob, 
his  inkstand,  the  mother-of-pearl  revolver  which 
was  found  in  his  pocket,  and  the  handkerchief  which 
fell  from  his  hand  when  he  was  taken  prisoner  by  the 
Young  Turks,  who  have  since  brought  their  country 
to  ruin. 

In  a  series  of  galleries,  under  arches  and  ceilings 
of  yellow  and  white,  stands,  sits,  reclines,  and 
squats,  in  Eastern  fashion,  a  strange  population  of 
puppets,  dressed  in  the  costumes  of  the  bygone  cen- 
turies during  which  Turkey  has  ruled  in  Europe. 
Those  fearful  ex-Christians,  the  Janissaries,  who 
were  scourges  of  Christianity,  look  very  mild  now 
as  they  stand  fatuously  together,  no  longer  either 
Christian  or  Mussulman  but  fatally  Madame  Tus- 
saud.  Once  they  tucked  up  their  coats  to  fight  for 
the  "Father"  who  had  ravished  them  away  from 
their  fathers  in  blood.  Now,  even  the  wicked  man, 
who  flees  when  no  one  pursueth,  could  scarcely  fear 
them.  Near  them  the  chief  eunuch,  a  plump  and 
piteous  gentleman,  reclines  absurdly  upon  his  divan, 
holding  his  large  black  pipe,  and  obsequiously  at- 
tended by  a  bearded  dwarf  in  red,  and  by  a  thin 
aide-de-camp  in  green.  The  Sheikh-ul-Islam  bends 
beneath  the  coiled  dignity  of  his  monstrous  turban; 
a  really  lifelike  old  man,  with  a  curved  gray  beard 

247 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

and  a  green  and  white  turban,  reads  the  Koran  per- 
petually; and  soldiers  with  faces  made  of  some  sub- 
stance that  looks  like  plaster  return  blankly  the  gaze 
of  the  many  real  soldiers  who  visit  this  curious  show. 

One  day,  when  I  was  strolling  among  the  puppets 
of  Saint  Irene,  some  soldiers  followed  me  round. 
They  w^ere  deeply  interested  in  all  that  they  saw, 
and  at  last  became  interested  in  me.  Two  or  three 
of  them  addressed  me  in  Turkish,  which  alas!  I  could 
not  understand.  I  gathered,  however,  that  they 
were  seriously  explaining  the  puppets  to  me,  and 
were  giving  me  information  about  the  Janissaries, 
and  Orchan,  who  was  the  founder  of  that  famous 
corps.  I  responded  as  well  as  I  could  with  gestures, 
which  seemed  to  satisfy  them,  for  they  kept  close 
beside  me,  and  one,  a  gigantic  fellow  with  pugna- 
cious mustaches,  frequently  touched  my  arm,  and 
once  even  took  me  by  the  hand  to  draw  my  attention 
to  a  group  which  he  specially  admired.  All  this  was 
done  with  gravity  and  dignity,  and  with  a  childlike 
lack  of  self-consciousness.  We  parted  excellent 
friends.  I  distributed  cigarettes,  which  were  re- 
ceived with  smiling  gratitude,  and  went  on  my  way 
to  Seraglio  Point,  realizing  that  there  is  truth  in  the 
saying  that  every  Turk  is  a  gentleman. 

Upon  Seraglio  Point  I  found  many  more  soldiers, 
resting  in  groups  by  the  edge  of  the  sea,  upon  the 
waste  ground  that  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  walls, 

248 


STAMBOUL,  THE   CITY   OF   MOSQUES 

beyond  the  delightful  abandoned  glades  that  are  left 
to  run  wild  and  to  shelter  the  birds.  If  you  wish  to 
understand  something  of  the  curious  indifference 
that  hangs,  like  moss,  about  the  Turk,  visit  Seraglio 
Point.  There,  virtually  in  Stamboul,  is  one  of  the 
most  beautifully  situated  bits  of  land  in  the  world. 
Though  really  part  of  a  great  city,  much  of  it  has 
not  been  built  upon.  Among  the  trees  on  the  ridge, 
looking  to  Marmora  and  Asia,  to  the  Bosporus  and 
the  palaces,  to  the  Golden  Horn,  Galata,  and  Pera, 
lie  the  many  buildings  and  courts  of  the  Old  Se- 
raglio, fairy-like  in  their  wood.  The  snowy  cupolas, 
the  minarets,  and  towers  look  ideally  Eastern.  They 
suggest  romantic  and  careless  lives,  cradled  in 
luxury  and  ease.  In  that  white  vision  one  might 
dream  away  the  days,  watching  from  afar  the 
pageant  of  the  city  and  the  seas,  hearing  from  afar 
the  faint  voices  of  the  nations,  listening  to  strange 
and  monotonous  music,  toying  with  coffee  and  rose- 
leaf  jam  in  the  jewel-like  Kiosk  of  Bagdad,  and 
dreaming,  always  dreaming.  There  once  the  Sultan 
dwelt  in  the  Eski-Serai,  which  exists  no  longer,  and 
there  was  built  the  great  Summer  Palace,  which 
was  inhabited  by  Suleiman  I,  and  by  his  successors. 
Hidden  in  the  Old  Seraglio  there  are  many  treasures, 
among  them  the  magnificent  Persian  throne,  which 
is  covered  with  gold  and  jewels.  Beyond  this  neg- 
lected wonder-world  the  woods  extend  toward  the 

249 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

waters;  hanging  woods  by  the  sea — and  the  Turks 
care  nothing  about  them.  One  may  not  wander 
through  them;  one  may  not  sit  in  them;  one  may 
only  look  at  them,  and  long  to  lose  oneself  in  their 
darkness  and  silence,  to  vanish  in  their  secret  re- 
cesses. The  Turk  leaves  them  alone,  to  rot  or  to 
flourish,  as  Allah  and  Nature  will  it. 

On  the  third  of  Stamboul's  seven  hills  stands  the 
Mosque  of  Suleiman  the  Magnificent,  all  glorious 
without,  as  Santa  Sophia  is  not,  but  disappointing 
within,  despite  its  beautiful  windows  of  jeweled 
glass  from  Persia,  and  the  plaques  of  wonderful  tiles 
which  cover  the  wall  on  either  side  of  the  mihrab. 
Somber  and  dark,  earth-colored  and  gray,  dark- 
green  and  gold,  it  has  a  poorly  painted  cupola  and 
much  plastered  stone  which  is  ugly.  But  there  is 
fascination  in  its  old  dimness,  in  its  silence  and  de- 
sertion. More  than  once  I  was  quite  alone  within  it, 
and  was  able  undisturbed  to  notice  its  chief  internal 
beauty,  the  exquisite  proportions  which  trick  you  at 
first  into  believing  it  to  be  much  smaller  than  it  is. 

When  seen  from  without  it  looks  colossal.  It  is 
splendid  and  imposing,  but  it  is  much  more,  for  it 
has  a  curiously  fantastic,  and  indeed  almost  whim- 
sical charm,  as  if  its  builder,  Sinan,  had  been  a  play- 
ful genius,  full  of  gaiety  and  exuberance  of  spirit, 
who  made  this  great  mosque  with  joy  and  with 
lightness  of  heart,  but  who  never  forgot  for  a  mo- 

250 


ST.   (iEORGE'S   C^REEK  CHURCH,   NOW  A   MOSQUE, 
CONSTANTINOPLE 


I  roin  a  photo^'raph,  copyright,  by  Underwood  it  I'nderivood.  N.  'S'. 


STAMBOUL,  THE   CITY  OF   MOSQUES 

ment  his  science,  and  who  could  not  be  vulgar  even 
in  his  most  animated  moments  of  invention.  Mas- 
siveness  and  grace  are  blended  together  in  this 
beautiful  exterior.  Round  the  central  dome  multi- 
tudes of  small  domes — airy  bubbles  throw^n  up  on 
the  surface  of  the  mosque — are  grouped  with  de- 
lightful fantasy.  Four  minarets,  the  two  farthest 
from  the  mosque  smaller  than  their  brethren,  soar 
above  the  trees.  They  are  gray,  and  the  walls  of  the 
mosque  are  gray  and  white.  In  the  forecourt  there 
is  a  fine  fountain  covered  with  a  cupola;  the  roof  of 
the  cloisters  which  surround  it  is  broken  up  into 
twenty-four  little  domes.  A  garden  lies  behind  the 
mosque,  and  the  great  outer  court  is  planted  with 
trees. 

In  the  garden  are  the  turbehs,  or  tombs,  of  Sulei- 
man the  Magnificent  and  of  Roxalana,  "the  joyous 
one,'*  that  strange  captive  from  Russia,  who  by  her 
charm  and  the  power  of  her  temperament  subdued  a 
nation's  ruler,  who  shared  the  throne  of  the  sultan, 
who  guided  his  feet  in  the  ways  of  crime,  and  who  to 
the  day  of  her  death  was  adored  by  him.  For  Rox- 
alana's  sake,  Suleiman  murdered  his  eldest  son  by 
another  wife,  and  crept  out  from  behind  a  curtain  to 
look  upon  him  dead;  and  for  Roxalana's  sake  that 
son's  son  was  stabbed  to  death  in  his  mother's  arms. 
Now  the  fatal  woman  sleeps  in  a  great  octagonal 
marble  tomb  near  the  tomb  of  her  lord  and  slave. 

253 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

An  atmosphere  of  peace  and  of  hoary  age  broods 
over  these  tombs  and  the  humble  graves  that  crowd 
close  about  them.  Mulberry-trees,  fig-trees,  and 
cypresses  thrown  patches  of  shade  on  the  rough  gray 
pavement,  in  w^hich  is  a  small  oval  pool,  full  of  water 
lest  the  little  birds  should  go  thirsty.  A  vine  strag- 
gles over  a  wall  near  by;  weeds  and  masses  of  bright 
yellow  flowers  combine  their  humble  efforts  to  be 
decorative;  and  the  call  to  prayer  drops  down  from 
the  mighty  minarets  to  this  strange  garden  of 
stones,  yellow  flowers,  and  weeds,  where  the  lovers 
rest  in  the  midst  of  Stamboul,  which  once  feared  and 
adored  them.  They  were  two  criminals,  but  there 
was  strength  in  their  wickedness,  strength  in  their 
pride  and  their  passion.  Romance  attended  their 
footsteps,  and  romance  still  lingers  near  them. 

One  morning,  as  I  sat  beneath  the  noble  fig-tree 
which  guards  Roxalana's  tomb,  and  listened  to  the 
voice  of  the  muezzin  floating  over  old  Stamboul,  and 
watched  the  birds  happily  drinking  at  the  edge  of 
their  little  basin  In  the  pavement,  I  thought  of  the 
influence  of  cities.  Does  not  Stamboul  forever  incite 
to  intrigue,  to  lawlessness,  to  bloodshed?  The 
muezzin  calls  to  prayer,  but  from  old  Stamboul 
arises  another  voice  sending  forth  an  opposing  sum- 
mons. Suleiman  heard  it  echoed  by  Roxalana,  and 
slew  his  son ;  Roxalana  heard  and  obeyed  it ;  and  how 
many  others  have  listened  and  been  fatally  moved 

254 


STAMBOUL,  THE   CITY   OF   MOSQUES 

by  it!  It  has  sounded  even  across  the  waters  of  the 
sea  and  over  the  forests  of  Yildiz;  and  Armenians 
have  been  slain  by  thousands  while  Europe  looked 
on.  And  perhaps  in  our  day,  and  after  we  are  gone, 
old  Stamboul  will  command  from  its  seven  hills  and 
will  be  horribly  obeyed. 

I  shall  always  remember,  among  many  less  fa- 
mous buildings,  the  small  mosque  of  Rustem  Pasha 
near  the  Egyptian  Bazaar,  with  its  beautiful  arcade 
and  its  strangely  confused  interior,  full  of  loveliness 
and  bad  taste,  of  atrocious  modern  painting  and 
oleographic  horrors,  mingled  with  exquisite  marble 
and  perfect  tiles.  The  wall  of  the  arcade  gleams 
with  lustrous  faience,  purple  and  red,  azure  and 
milk-white,  and  with  patterns  of  great  flowers  with 
green  centers  and  turquoise  leaves.  I  recall,  too,  the 
Mosaic  Mosque,  once  the  church  of  the  monastery  of 
the  Chora,  w^hich  stands  on  a  hill  from  which  Stam- 
boul looks  like  a  beautiful  village  embowered  in 
green,  cheerful  and  gaily  fascinating.  The  church 
is  ugly  outside,  yellow  and  lead-colored,  with  a 
white  plaster  minaret,  and  it  is  surrounded  by 
wooden  shanties  like  booths.  But  its  mosaics  are 
very  interesting  and  beautiful,  and  its  chief  muezzin, 
Mustafa  Effendi,  is  a  delight  in  his  long  golden  robe 
and  his  yellow  turban. 

Mustafa  Effendi  was  born  near  Brusa  in  Asia 
Minor,  but  for  forty-two  years  he  has  held  the  office 


THE   NEAR  EAST 

of  chief  muezzin  at  the  Mosaic  Mosque,  on  which  all 
his  thoughts  seem  centered.  He  speaks  English  a 
little,  and  has  an  almost  inordinate  sense  of  humor. 
As  he  pointed  out  the  mosaics  to  me  with  his  wrin- 
kled hand  he  abounded  in  comment,  and  more  than 
once  his  thin  voice  was  almost  overwhelmed  by  ill- 
suppressed  laughter.  He  seemed  specially  enter- 
tained as  he  drew  my  attention  to  two  birds  on  the 
wall — ''Monsieur  Peacock  and  Madame  Peahen"; 
and  he  was  obliged  to  abandon  all  dignity  and  to 
laugh  outright  when  we  came  to  a  company  of  saints 
and  angels. 

The  most  sacred  mosque  in  Turkey  lies  outside  of 
Stamboul,  at  Eyub,  far  up  the  Golden  Horn  and  not 
very  distant  from  the  "sweet  waters  of  Europe."  In 
it,  on  their  accession,  the  sultans  are  solemnly  girded 
with  Osman's  sword  instead  of  being  crowned. 
Eyub  is  a  place  of  tombs.  Chief  eunuchs  and  grand 
vizirs  sleep  near  the  sea  in  great  mausoleums  in- 
closed within  gilded  railings,  and  some  of  them  sur- 
rounded by  gardens;  on  the  hillside  above  them 
thousands  of  the  faithful  rest  under  cypresses  in 
graves  marked  by  dusty  headstones  leaning  awry. 

The  center  or  heart  of  Eyub  is  a  pleasant  village, 
which  gathers  closely  about  the  mosque,  and  is  full 
of  a  quietly  cheerful  life.  Just  beyond  the  court  of 
the  mosque  is  a  Turkish  bath,  where  masseurs,  with 
shaven  heads  and  the  usual  tuft,  lounge  in  the  sun- 

256 


I  r  m  a  photojr  iph,  cupyriy^lu,  by  Uiulerwood  &  Underwood,  N.  Y. 


STREET  VTSTA   IN   GALATA   FROM    END   OF  BRIDCiF 
CONSTANTINOPLE 


STAMBOUL,  THE   CITY  OF   MOSQUES 

shine  while  waiting-  for  customers.  Near  by  are 
many  small  shops  and  cafes.  In  one  of  the  latter  I 
ate  an  excellent  meal  of  rice  and  fat  mutton,  cooked 
on  a  spit  which  revolved  in  the  street.  If  you  stray 
from  the  center  of  the  village  toward  the  outskirts 
you  find  yourself  in  a  deserted  rummage  of  tombs, 
of  white  columns,  white  cupolas,  cloisters,  rooms  for 
theological  students,  mausoleums  of  white  and  pink 
marble.  No  footsteps  resound  on  the  pavement  of 
the  road,  no  voices  are  heard  in  the  little  gardens,  no 
eyes  look  out  through  the  railings.  As  I  wandered 
through  the  sunshine  to  the  small  stone  platform, 
where  the  Sultan  descends  from  his  horse  when  he 
comes  to  be  girded  with  the  sword,  I  saw  no  sign  of 
life;  and  the  only  noise  that  I  heard  was  the  per- 
sistent tap  of  a  hammer  near  the  sea,  where  his  Maj- 
esty is  building  an  imperial  mosque  of  white  stone 
fromTrebizond. 

Presently,  growing  weary  of  the  white  and  silent 
streets  of  the  tombs,  I  turned  into  a  narrow  alley 
that  ran  by  a  grated  wall,  above  which  great  trees 
towered,  climbing  toward  heaven  with  the  minaret 
of  the  Mosque  of  Eyub,  but  failing  in  their  journey 
a  little  below  the  muezzin's  balcony.  They  were 
cypresses,  and  creepers  climbed  affectionately  with 
them.  Just  beyond  them  I  came  into  the  court  of  the 
mosque,  and  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of 
pilgrims  before  the  tomb  of  Abu  Eyub,  which  is  cov- 

259 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

ered  with  gilding  and  faience.  Near  it  is  a  fountain 
protected  by  magnificent  plane-trees  which  are  sur- 
rounded by  iron  railings  decorated  with  dervish 
caps. 

I  had  been  told  more  than  once  that  the  Christian 
dog  is  unwelcome  in  Eyub,  and  I  was  soon  made 
aware  of  it.  In  the  facade  of  the  tomb  there  is  a  hole 
through  which  one  can  look  into  the  interior.  Tak- 
ing my  turn  among  the  pilgrims,  I  presently  stood 
in  front  of  this  aperture,  and  was  about  to  peep  in 
discreetly  when  a  curtain  was  sharply  drawn  across 
it  by  some  one  inside.  I  waited  for  a  moment,  but  in 
vain;  the  curtain  was  not  drawn  back,  so  at  last  I 
meekly  went  on  my  way,  feeling  rather  humiliated. 
A  Greek  friend  afterward  told  me  that  an  imam  was 
stationed  within  the  tomb,  and  that  no  doubt  he  had 
drawn  the  curtain  against  me  because  I  was  an  un- 
believer. 

Duly  chastened  by  this  rebuff,  I  nevertheless  went 
on  to  the  mosque,  and  was  allowed  to  go  in  for  a  mo- 
ment on  making  a  payment.  The  attendant  was 
very  rough  and  suspicious  in  manner,  and  watched 
me  as  if  I  were  a  criminal;  and  the  pilgrims  who 
thronged  the  interior  stared  at  me  with  open  hostil- 
ity. I  thought  it  wiser,  therefore,  to  make  only  a 
cursory  examination  of  the  handsome  marble  in- 
terior, with  its  domes  and  semi-domes,  and  after- 
ward, with  a  sense  of  relief,  took  my  way  up  the 

260 


STAMBOUL,  THE   CITY  OF   MOSQUES 

hillside,  to  spend  an  hour  among  the  leaning  grave- 
stones in  the  shade  of  the  cypresses.  Each  stone 
above  the  grave  of  a  man  was  carved  with  a  fez,  each 
woman's  stone  with  a  flower;  and  tiny  holes  formed 
receptacles  to  collect  the  rain-water,  so  that  the 
birds  might  refresh  themselves  above  the  dust  of  the 
departed. 

The  great  field  of  the  dead  was  very  tranquil  that 
day.  I  saw  only  two  closely  veiled  women  moving 
slowly  in  the  distance  near  the  small  tekkeh  of  the 
Mevlevi  dervishes,  and  an  old  Turk  sitting  with  a 
child,  at  the  edge  of  the  hill  before  a  cafe.  The  wo- 
men, who  were  shrouded  in  black,  disappeared 
among  the  gigantic  cypresses,  seeking  perhaps 
among  the  thousands  of  graves  one  stone  with  a 
flower  or  a  fez  that  was  dear  to  their  hearts  because 
of  the  sleeper  beneath  it.  The  old  Turk  rolled  a 
cigarette  in  his  knotty  fingers,  looking  dreamily 
down  at  the  child,  who  sat  with  his  little  legs  under 
him  silently  staring  at  the  water  below,  upon  which 
no  vessels,  no  caiques  were  moving.  On  the  bare  hill 
to  my  left  I  saw  the  white  gleam  of  the  stones  in  a 
Jewish  cemetery;  and,  beneath,  the  pale  curve  of  the 
Golden  Horn,  ending  not  far  off  in  the  peace  of  the 
desolate  country.  Red-roofed  Eyub,  shredding  out 
into  blanched  edges  of  cupolas  and  tombs  by  the 
sultan's  landing-place,  marked  the  base  of  the  hill; 
and,  beyond,  in   the  distance,  mighty  Stamboul, 

261 


THE   NEAR   EAST 

brown,  with  red  lights  here  and  there  where  the  sun 
struck  a  roof,  streamed  away  to  SeragHo  Point.  The 
great  prospect  was  closed  by  the  shadowy  moun- 
tains of  Asia,  among  which  I  divined,  rather  than 
actually  saw,  the  crest  of  Olympus. 

In  these  Turkish  cemeteries  there  is  a  romantic 
and  poignant  melancholy  such  as  I  have  found  in  no 
other  places  of  tombs.  They  breathe  out  an  atmo- 
sphere of  fatalism,  of  bloodless  resignation  to  the  in- 
evitable. Their  dilapidation  suggests  rather  than 
mere  indifference  a  sense  of  the  uselessness  of  care. 
Dust  unto  dust — and  there  an  end!  But  far  off  in 
Stamboul  the  minarets  contradict  the  voices  that 
whisper  over  the  fields  of  the  dead.  For  the  land  of 
the  Turk  is  the  home  of  contradictions;  and  among 
them  there  are  some  that  are  welcome. 

To  rid  myself  of  the  clinging  impression  of  sad- 
ness that  stole  over  me  among  the  cypresses  of 
Eyub,  I  took  a  boat,  later  in  the  day,  to  the  shore  of 
Asia,  and  visited  the  English  graveyard  at  Haidar 
Pasha,  where  long  ago  Florence  Nightingale  estab- 
lished her  hospital  for  soldiers  wounded  in  the 
Crimean  War,  and  where  now  Germans  have  built 
an  elaborate  station  from  which  some  day  we  shall 
be  able  to  set  out  for  Bagdad.  Already  smart  cor- 
ridor cars,  with  white  roofs  and  spotlessly  clean  cur- 
tains, and  with  ''Bagdad"  printed  in  large  letters 
upon  them,  are  running  from  the  coast  to  myste- 

262 


A  VIEW  OVER   CONSTANTINOPLE  SHOWING  THE 
MOSQUE  OF  SANTA  SOPHIA 


1   r.ui   .,  |.nwi.,^,,,|.ii.    .pyni;!!!.    I  .y  t   liucrw.  ..d  A'   I    M.kTw...i(t,   \.   ^-. 


STAMBOUL,  THE   CITY  OF   MOSQUES 

rious  places  in  the  interior  of  Asia.  In  the  excellent 
restaurant  beer  flows  freely.  If  the  mystic  word 
"Verboten"  were  not  absent  from  the  walls,  one 
might  fancy  himself  in  Munich  on  entering  the  sta- 
tion at  Haidar  Pasha.  On  the  hill  just  above  the 
station  lies  the  English  cemetery,  a  delightful  gar- 
den of  rest,  full  of  hope  and  peace.  It  is  beautifully 
kept,  and  contains  the  home  of  the  guardian,  a  Brit- 
ish soldier,  who  lives  with  his  wife  and  daughters  in 
a  cozy  stone  bungalow  fronted  by  flower-beds  and 
trees.  Close  to  his  house  is  a  grave  with  a  broken 
column,  raised  on  a  platform  which  is  approached  by 
three  steps  and  surrounded  by  a  circular  grass-plot. 
Here  I  found  a  serious  Montenegrin,  one  of  the 
workers  in  the  cemetery,  busily  employed.  He  had 
spread  sheets  of  paper  all  over  the  grass-plot,  and  up 
the  steps  of  the  grave,  and  had  scattered  above  them 
a  great  mass  of  wool  which  suggested  a  recent 
sheep-shearing.  When  I  came  up  he  was  adding 
more  wool  to  the  mass  with  a  sort  of  grave  ardor.  I 
asked  him  wdiat  the  wool  was  for  and  why  he  was 
spreading  it  out.  He  glanced  up  solemnly  and  re- 
plied: 

"It  is  for  my  bed.  I  live  in  that  shed  over  there 
and  am  preparing  my  mattress  for  the  winter." 

And  he  continued  quietly  and  dexterously  to  scat- 
ter the  wool  over  the  tomb. 

The  cemetery,  which  looks  out  over  the  sea  and 

265 


THE  NEAR  EAST 

the  beautiful  shores  of  Europe,  is  full  of  the  graves 
of  soldiers  who  died  of  wounds  received  in  the 
Crimean  War,  or  of  maladies  caught  in  camp  and  in 
the  trenches.  Among  them  lie  the  bodies  of  many 
devoted  women  who  worked  to  allay  their  suffer- 
ings. 

Bent  perpetually  on  escape  from  the  uproar  of 
Pera,  in  which  at  night  I  was  forced  to  dwell,  I  made 
more  than  one  excursion  to  the  walls  and  the  seven 
towers  of  Stamboul.  There  are  three  sets  of  walls: 
the  land,  the  sea,  and  the  harbor  walls.  The  seven 
towers,  Yedi  Kuleh,  are  very  near  to  the  Sea  of 
Marmora,  and  are  now  unused  and  deserted;  the 
home  no  longer  of  imprisoned  ambassadors,  of  sul- 
tans and  vizirs,  but  of  winds  from  the  islands  and 
from  Asia,  of  grass,  yellow  wild-flowers,  and  the 
fallen  leaves  of  the  autumn.  When  I  went  there  I 
was  alone,  save  for  one  very  old  man,  the  peaceful 
successor  of  the  Janissaries  who  long  ago  garrisoned 
this  marvelous  place  of  terror  and  crime.  With  him 
at  my  heels  I  wandered  among  the  trees  of  the  de- 
serted inclosure  surrounded  by  gray  and  crenellated 
walls,  above  which  the  towers  rose  up  grimly  toward 
the  windy  sky;  I  penetrated  through  narrow  corri- 
dors of  stone;  I  crawled  through  gaps  and  clambered 
over  masses  of  rubble  and  fallen  masonry;  I  visited 
tiny  and  sinister  chambers  inclosed  in  the  thickness 
of  the  walls;  peered  through  small  openings;  came 

266 


STAMBOUL,  THE   CITY   OF   MOSQUES 

out  unexpectedly  on  terraces.  And  the  old  man. 
muttered  and  mumbled  in  my  ears,  monotonously 
and  without  emotion,  the  history  of  crime  connected 
with  the  place.  Here  some  one  was  starved  to 
death;  here  another  was  strangled  by  night;  in  this 
chamber  a  French  ambassador  was  held  captive;  the 
blood  of  a  sultan  dyed  these  stones  red;  at  the  foot 
of  this  bit  of  wall  there  was  a  massacre;  just  there 
some  great  person  was  blinded.  And,  with  the  voice 
in  my  ears,  I  looked  and  I  saw  white  butterflies  flit- 
ting, with  their  frivolous  purity,  among  the  leaves 
of  acacia-trees,  and  snails  crawling  lethargically 
over  rough  gray  stones.  Near  the  Golden  Gate, 
where  an  earthquake  has  shaken  down  much  of  the 
wall,  and  the  Byzantine  dove  of  carved  stone  still 
remains — ironically? — as  an  emblem  of  peace,  was  a 
fig-tree  giving  green  figs ;  Marmora  shone  from  afar; 
in  the  waterless  moat,  that  stretches  at  the  feet  of 
the  walls,  the  grasses  were  waving,  the  ivy  grew 
thickly,  here  and  there  big  patches  of  vegetables 
gave  token  of  the  forethought  and  industry  of  men. 
And  beyond,  stretching  away  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 
the  cemeteries  without  the  city  disappeared  into  dis- 
tances, everywhere  shadowed  by  those  tremendous, 
almost  terrible,  cypresses  that  watch  over  the  dead 
in  the  land  of  the  Turk. 

Beauty  and  sadness,  crime  and  terror,  wonderful 
romance,  and  a  ghastly  desolation  seemed  brooding 

267 


THE   NEAR  EAST 

over  this  strange  region  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
voices  of  the  city.  Even  the  ancient  man  was  silent 
at  last.  He  had  recited  all  the  horrors  his  old  mem- 
ory contained,  and  at  my  side  he  stood  gazing,  with 
bleary  eyes,  across  the  moat  and  the  massy  cy- 
presses, and,  with  me,  he  turned  to  capture  the 
shining  of  Marmora. 

On  the  farther  verge  of  the  moat  three  dogs, 
which  had  somehow  escaped  the  far-flung  nets,  wan- 
dered slowly  seeking  for  offal;  some  women  hovered 
darkly  among  the  graves;  a  thin,  piercing  cry,  that 
was  not  without  a  wild  sweetness,  rose  to  me  from 
somewhere  below.  I  looked  down  and  there,  among 
the  rankly  growing  grasses  of  the  moat,  I  saw  a 
young  girl,  very  thin,  her  black  hair  hanging  and 
bound  with  bright  handkerchiefs,  sketching  vaguely 
a  danse  du  ventre.  As  I  looked  she  became  more 
precise  in  her  movements,  and  her  cries  grew  more 
fierce  and  imperative.  From  some  hovel,  hidden 
among  the  walls,  other  children  streamed  out,  with 
cries  and  contortions,  to  join  her.  For  here,  among 
the  ruins,  the  Turkish  Gipsies  have  made  their  home. 
I  threw  down  some  coins  and  turned  away.  And  as 
I  went,  returning  through  the  old  places  of  assas- 
sination, I  was  pursued  by  a  whining  of  pipes  and  a 
thrumming  of  distant  guitars.  The  Gipsies  of  old 
Stamboul  were  trying  to  lure  me  down  from  my 
fastness  to  make  merry  with  them  among  the  tombs. 

268 


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